HUGESSON GASTRELL AT HOME
A week had passed since Dulcie had promised to become my wife, and since
the amazing robbery in broad daylight at Holt Manor.
I had been five days back in town, where I had some estate business to
attend to. It was the evening of Hugesson Gastrell's house-warming
reception in his newly furnished mansion in Cumberland Place, and the
muster of well-known people was extraordinary.
Peers and peeresses, prosperous City financiers, celebrities of the
drama and of the operatic stage, luminaries of the law, diplomats, and
rich retired traders who had shed the "tradesman" and blossomed into
"gentleman," jostled one another in the rooms and on the stairs. It is
surprising how people will rush to the house of a wealthy man. At least
one Duke was present, a Cabinet Minister too, also a distinguished Judge
and two Archbishops, for I noticed them as I fought my way up into the
room where music was being performed, music the quality of which the
majority of the listeners gauged by the fees known to be paid to the
artists engaged, and by the amount of newspaper publicity those artists'
Press agents had succeeded in securing for them.
Nor were journalists lacking at this "interesting social function," as
some of them afterwards termed it in their papers. In London I move a
good deal in many kinds of society, and now I noticed, mingling in the
crowd, several men and women I was in the habit of meeting frequently,
though I did not know them to speak to—Press representatives whose
exclusive duty I knew it to be to attend social gatherings of this
description. As I edged my way through the dense throng I could hear my
favourite composition, Dvorak's "Humoresque," being played on the violin
by Beatrice Langley, who I had been told was to appear, and for a few
brief minutes the crowd was hushed. To my chagrin the music ended almost
as I succeeded in forcing my way into the room, so that I was in time
only for the applause.
Now the hall and the large rooms where the guests were, were filled with
the buzz of conversation. In two of these rooms supper was in progress,
a supper in keeping with the sumptuousness, the luxury and the general
extravagance noticeable everywhere.
For this house in Cumberland Place which he had rented from Lord
Easterton lent itself admirably to Hugesson Gastrell's distorted ideas
as to plenishing, at which some people laughed, calling them almost
Oriental in their splendour and their lavishness. Upon entering, the
idea conveyed was that here was a man who had suddenly found himself
possessed of a great deal more money than he had ever expected to come
by, and who, not being accustomed to wide means, had at once set to work
to fling his fortune broadcast, purchasing, wherever he went, everything
costly that took his fancy.
For after mounting some steps and entering under a wide portico, one
found oneself in a spacious, lofty vestibule where two flights of warmly
tinted marble steps, shallow and heavily carpeted, ran up to right and
left to a wide gallery on three sides of the hall. The marble was so
beautiful, the steps were so impressive to look upon, that one was
forcibly reminded of the staircase in the Opera House in Paris, of
course in miniature. On the lowest step on either side were carved
marble pillars supporting nude figures of great size and bearing each an
electric lamp gold-shaded to set off the yellow-tinted marble and the
Turkey carpets of gold and of richest blue. In one corner stood a
Mongolian monster, a green and gold dragon of porcelain resting on a
valuable faience pedestal—a bit of ancient Cathay set down in the heart
of London.
In their magnificence the reception rooms excelled even this hall,
boasting, as they did, a heterogeneous collection of rare antiques, of
valuable relics, and of _articles de virtu_ from practically the world
over. Everywhere they lay in strange confusion—on the mantelpieces,
tops of cupboards, on shelves, angle brackets, and on almost every
table. Here was a delicate lute of jade, used by Chinese lovers of a
thousand years ago. There stood silver lamps, carved most marvellously
and once trimmed by vestal virgins, lamps from the temples of
Herculaneum, of Rome and of Pompeii. Shadowy gods and goddesses,
dragons, fetishes of more or less hideous mien, glared everywhere at one
another in a manner most unpleasant. Porcelains; wonderful
blue-patterned plates from Pekin; willow-patterned dishes from Japan;
ancient hammered beer tankards from Bavaria and the Rhine; long-stemmed
Venetian glasses of iridescent hues, were scattered everywhere in
bewildering profusion. In an ante-room was a priceless crucifix in three
different woods, from Ober-Ammergau; on the mantelpieces of three of the
reception rooms were old French gilt clocks—the kind found nowadays
only in secluded and old inns of the Bohemian Quartier Latin, inns
which the tourist never sees, and where "collectors" are to all intents
unknown. Set upon this landing of polished oak upon the first floor was
a very ancient sundial, taken from some French chateau, a truly
beautiful _objet d'art_ in azure and faded gold, with foliated crest
above, borne long ago, no doubt, by some highly pompous dignitary. Here
and there, too, were suits of armour of beaten steel—glittering
figures, rigid and erect and marvellously inlaid with several different
metals. Two rooms of the building, I was told by a guest with whom I had
entered into conversation, were set aside entirely as an armoury.
Hardly had I finished observing all this, and a great deal more besides,
when a voice at my elbow exclaimed:
"Good evening, Mr. Berrington. I wonder, now, if you'll remember
me—eh?"
As I turned, I instantly recognized the speaker.
"Of course I recollect you—Mrs. Stapleton," I exclaimed, looking into
her eyes with, I am afraid, rather unconcealed admiration, for I don't
pretend that I am not of a very susceptible nature. "I have met many
people I know, this evening," I continued, "but this is an unlooked-for
pleasure. I was told in Berkshire that you never came to town."
"Were you really?" she exclaimed with a ripple of merry laughter. "They
seem, down there, to know more about one's movements than one
knows oneself."
For an instant she paused.
"And how is your lovely and delightful friend—Dulcie Challoner?" she
inquired presently. "Is she here to-night?"
"No," I said, wondering for the moment if she knew or suspected my
secret, for our engagement had not yet been announced. "The Challoners
don't know our host, though, judging by the people here to-night, he
seems to know nearly everybody."
"Do you know him well? Have you known him long?" she inquired
carelessly, letting her gaze rest on mine.
I told her that our acquaintanceship was very slight, that I had made
his acquaintance in Geneva, and met him once afterwards in London.
"I don't know him well, either," she observed, then added with some
emphasis, "He strikes me as being a most charming young man."
Naturally I agreed with her, though I had been unable to make up my mind
whether, upon the whole, I liked him or not. I thought that upon the
whole I didn't, seeing what strange things had happened.
"By the by," I said suddenly, "have you had supper?"
She answered that she had not, and added that she was "starving."
Several people were emerging from one of the supper rooms, and thus it
came that I presently found myself seated _tete-a-tete_ with the
beautiful widow, and at last beginning to enjoy an evening which until
now I had found rather dull.
It was natural that we should presently speak of Berkshire and of Holt
Manor, and soon we were discussing at length the subject of the robbery.
"And have the police as yet no clues?" Mrs. Stapleton suddenly asked.
"None, apparently. I suppose you have heard all about what happened, and
the statements made by Sir Roland's little son, Dick Challoner."
"I know nothing beyond what I read in the newspapers," she replied. "The
papers mentioned that Sir Roland's boy had been chloroformed by the
thief or thieves—that was all so far as I remember."
"Yes," I answered, "he was chloroformed, but he need not have been
according to his own account—and as he is extremely truthful and never
boasts, I think we may believe his story. He had his head and shoulders
in a big oak chest in his father's bedroom, where his father had sent
him to find a hunting apron to lend to somebody, and when he stood
upright again he heard two men talking, upon the opposite side of the
screen which hid the oak chest.
"The voices were those of strangers, and the boy naturally supposed that
the speakers were some friends of Sir Roland's. He was about to show
himself, when he heard one of the men say:
"'She says this drawer has money in it: give me your key.'
"He heard a key being pushed into a drawer lock, the drawer pulled out,
the chink of coin and the crackle of bank-notes. Then he heard the other
man suddenly say:
"'Hurry up. They'll have got the plate by this time and be waiting for
us.'
"The boy was awfully frightened, of course, but he didn't lose his head.
Knowing that his presence must be discovered in a moment, he sprang out
from behind the screen, intending to dash past the men and downstairs
and give the alarm. Unfortunately he rushed right up against one of
them, who instantly gripped him and clapped his hand over his mouth
while the other man pressed his hand over his eyes—presumably to
prevent Dick's being afterwards able to identify them. Dick says that
one of the men twisted his arm until he couldn't stir without extreme
pain, then told him that he must show them where the key of Sir
Roland's safe was—a little safe in the wall in his bedroom. Dick knew
where the key was—Sir Roland keeps it, it seems, in a drawer of his
dressing-table—but he refused to tell, though the man screwed his arm
until he nearly broke it—he strained it badly, and the poor little chap
has it still in a sling. Then, finding that they could do nothing with
him, and that nothing would make him 'peach,' as he says—though he says
they threatened to hit him on the head—one of them pressed something
over his mouth and nose, which seemed to suffocate him. What happened
after that he doesn't know, as he lost consciousness."
"What a brave little boy," my beautiful companion exclaimed in a tone of
admiration. "Did he say at all what the men were like?"
"He didn't catch even a glimpse of their faces, they pounced on him so
quickly. But he says that both wore hunting kit, and he thinks both were
tall. One wore pink."
"It was a carefully planned affair, anyway," Mrs. Stapleton said
thoughtfully, as I refilled her glass with Pol Roger. "What was the
actual value of the things stolen?"
"Sir Roland puts it at twelve or fourteen thousand pounds, roughly. You
see, he had a lot of jewellery that had belonged to Lady Challoner and
that would have been Miss Challoner's; most of that was stolen. It
should have been in the safe, of course, but Sir Roland had taken it out
the week before, intending to send it all to London to be thoroughly
overhauled and cleaned—he was going to give it to Dulcie—to Miss
Challoner on her twenty-first birthday; she comes of age next month, you
know. It was in one of the drawers that the thieves unlocked, and they
took most of it. They would have taken the lot, only some of it was in
a back partition of the drawer, and they apparently overlooked it."
"But how did they manage to steal the plate? I read in some paper that a
lot of plate was stolen."
"Heaven knows—but they got it somehow. The police think that other men,
disguised probably as gentlemen's servants, must have made their way
into the pantry during the hunt breakfast, while Sir Roland's servants
were up to their eyes in work, attending to everybody, and have slipped
it into bags and taken it out to a waiting motor. Strangers could easily
have gone into the back premises like that, unnoticed, in the middle of
the bustle and confusion. If Dick had told the men who bullied him what
they wanted to know, Sir Roland's safe would have been ransacked too,
and several thousands of pounds more worth of stuff stolen, most likely.
He is a little brick, that boy."
"He is, indeed. How long did he remain unconscious?"
"Until Sir Roland himself found him, just before lunch. The ruffians had
pushed him under the bed, and if Sir Roland had not happened to catch
sight of his foot, which protruded a little, the boy might have been
left there until night, or even until next day, and the whole household
have been hunting for him."
Mrs. Stapleton sipped some champagne, then asked:
"Is anybody suspected?"
"That's difficult to say," I answered. "Naturally the police think that
one or other of the servants at Holt must know something of the affair,
even have been an actual accomplice—but which? None of the servants has
been there less than four years, it seems, and several have been in Sir
Roland's service ten and fifteen years—the old butler was born on the
estate. Sir Roland scouts the idea that any of his servants had a hand
in the affair, and he told the police so at once. Even the fact that one
of the thieves had, according to Dick, referred to some woman—he had
said, '_She_ says this drawer has money in it'—wouldn't make Sir Roland
suspect any of the maids.
"The police then asked him in a roundabout way if he thought any of his
guests could have had anything to say to it. Phew! How furious Sir
Roland became with them! You should have seen him—I was with him at the
time. Then suddenly he grew quite calm, realizing that they were, after
all, only trying to do their duty and to help him to trace the thieves.
"'Up to the present I have not, so far as I am aware,' he said in that
cold, dignified way of his, 'entertained criminals at Holt Manor or
elsewhere. No, my man,' he ended, turning to the sergeant, or the
inspector, or whatever he was, 'the men who have stolen my property were
not any of my guests. You may set your minds at rest on that point.'"
Conversation drifted to other topics. Several times during supper I
endeavoured to lead my beautiful companion on to talk about herself, but
on each occasion she cleverly diverted conversation to some other
subject. I confess that when she casually questioned me concerning my
own affairs I was less successful in evading her inquiries; or it may
have been that I, in common with most of my sex, like to talk freely
about "self" and "self's" affairs, especially when the listener is a
beautiful woman who appears to be sympathetic and deeply interested in
all one has to say about oneself.
During that brief half-hour our intimacy grew apace. There are people
with whom one seems to have been on terms of friendship, almost as
though one had known them for years, within ten minutes after being
introduced to them; others who, when one has known them quite a long
time, seem still to remain comparatively strangers. Mrs. Stapleton
belonged to the first group, although she spoke so little about herself.
Yet I was not in the least attracted by her in the way Dulcie Challoner
attracted me. I found her capital company; I could imagine our becoming
great friends; I could think of her in the light of a _bonne camarade_.
But that was all. As for feeling tempted to fall in love with her—but
the bare thought was grotesque.
"What a charming, delightful girl that is—I mean Miss Challoner," Mrs.
Stapleton exclaimed suddenly, when, after talking a great deal, we had
been silent for a few moments. "And how exquisitely pretty," she added
after an instant's pause.
I hardly knew what to say. I know enough of women to be aware that no
woman is particularly anxious, save in exceptional cases, to listen to a
panegyric on the charms and the physical attractions of some other
woman. Therefore, after a moment's reflection, I answered with affected
indifference:
"I think I agree with you. I have known her a number of years. Her
father was a great friend of my father's."
"Indeed?" she replied, raising her eyebrows a little, then letting her
gaze rest full on mine. "That is interesting. I am a believer in
platonic friendships. I wonder if you are."
"Oh, of course," I said quickly. "It is ridiculous to suppose that a man
and woman can't be friends without—without—"
"Yes?" she said encouragingly.
"Oh, well—I suppose I mean without falling in love with each other."
She smiled in a way that puzzled me a little, but said nothing.
"Do you mean in all cases?" she suddenly inquired.
"In most cases, anyway."
"And when would you make an exception?"
This was a problem I felt I could not solve. However, I made a dash at
it.
"In the case of people of abnormally susceptible temperament," I said,
"I suppose such people couldn't be friends without soon
becoming—well, lovers."
"Ah, I see," she observed thoughtfully.
She was toying with a strawberry ice, and her lowered eyelids displayed
the extraordinary length of their lashes. Certainly I was talking to an
interesting and very lovely woman—though again here, as before in the
hunting field in Berkshire, I found myself wondering in what her beauty
consisted. Not a feature was regular; the freckles on nose and forehead
seemed to show more plainly under the glare of the electric lights; the
eyes were red-brown. But how large they were, and how they seemed to
sparkle with intelligence!
She looked up suddenly. Her expression was serious now. Up to the
present her eyes, while she talked, had been singularly animated, often
full of laughter.
"Mr. Berrington, have you ever been in love?"
I was so surprised at this question, from a woman to whom I was
practically a stranger, that I thought it best to treat it as a jest.
"Yes, a dozen times," I answered. "I am in love at this moment," I added
lightly, as if joking.
"You need not have told me that," she said, serious still. "I knew it
the moment I saw you both together. I asked—but only to hear what you
would say."
"But—but—" I stammered, "I—you—that is I don't quite catch your
meaning. When did you see 'us' both together—and who is the other
person you are thinking of?"
She had finished her ice.
"Please give me some more champagne," she said.
I picked up the half-empty bottle, refilled her glass, then my own. She
held out her glass until it clinked against mine.
"Here is health and long life to your friend on the chestnut," she
exclaimed, smiling again, "and to you too. I only hope that your married
life will be happier than—"
She checked herself. Her tongue had run away with her, and, as our lips
touched our glasses, I mentally finished her sentence.
But who, I wondered, had her husband been?
People were still flocking into the room. Others were moving out. From a
distance there came to us above the noise and the buzz of conversation
the words of a song I love:
"Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix
Comme s'ouvre les fleurs
Aux baisers de l'aurore,
Mais O! Mon bien aime
Pour mieux secher mes pleurs
Que ta voix parle encore,
Dis moi qu'a Dalila
Tu reviens pour jamais.
Redis a ma tendresse
Les serments d'autrefois
Les serments que j'aimais.
Ah, reponds a ma tendresse,
Ah, verse-moi l'ivresse!"
"How gorgeous!" I exclaimed, straining my ears in a vain attempt to hear
better. "Who is it?"
"Kirkby-Lunn," my companion answered quickly. "Are you fond—"
She stopped. Her face was partly turned. I saw a glance of recognition
flash into her eyes and vanish instantly. Following the direction of her
glance, my gaze rested upon the strange, striking woman I had seen but
once but could not possibly forget. Mrs. Gastrell had just entered, and
with her, to my astonishment, Jack Osborne. It was Jasmine Gastrell with
whom my companion had exchanged that momentary glance of recognition.
"Are you fond of music?" Mrs. Stapleton asked, looking at me again.
"Very," I answered absently, "of music that is music."
For my attention had become suddenly distracted. How came this woman to
be here, this woman who called herself Gastrell's wife? Lord Easterton
was somewhere about, for I had seen him in the crowd. Such a striking
woman would be sure to attract his attention, he would inquire who she
was, he might even ask Gastrell, and then what would happen? What would
Gastrell say? Was the woman actually his wife, or was she—
Mechanically I conversed with my companion for a minute or two longer,
then suddenly she suggested that we should go.
"And let some of these starving people take our table," she added, as
she prepared to rise.
Osborne and his singularly lovely companion were now seated at a table
only a few yards off. His back was turned to us, and I had not caught
Mrs. Gastrell's glance.
"D'you know who that is, that woman who has just come in?" I inquired
carelessly, indicating her as I rose.
"That?" Mrs. Stapleton answered, looking full at her, and this time
their eyes met in a cold stare. "No, I have no idea."
I confess that this flat untruth, spoken with such absolute
_sang-froid,_ somewhat disconcerted me. For I could not be in the least
doubt that I had distinctly seen the two women greet each other with
that brief glance of mutual recognition.