A CHANNEL MYSTERY
Nobody could have seemed more friendly or more thoroughly pleased to see
me again than Hugesson Gastrell as he grasped me heartily by the hand,
expressing surprise at our meeting so unexpectedly.
On the night I had talked to him at Cumberland Place, when I was
masquerading for the first time as Sir Aubrey Belston, I had experienced
a growing feeling of revulsion against him, and now as he took my hand
the same feeling returned and I could not dispel it, for the thought had
flashed in upon me: could it be that I was shaking hands with a man
whose hand was stained with blood? I had, of course, no proof that
Gastrell had committed murder, but in face of what Harold Logan had told
Sir Roland Challoner and myself upon his death bed, added to other
things I knew, it seemed well within the bounds of possibility that—
"And are you crossing to France?" he inquired, cutting my train of
thought.
"Yes," I answered mechanically.
"Going to Paris?"
"Yes."
"Why, how capital!" he exclaimed. "You must make one of our party on the
boat, and when we land. Connie Stapleton will be delighted to meet you
again, Sir Aubrey; she is on this train, and so are other mutual
friends. Connie was speaking of you not half an hour ago."
"Indeed?" I said, feeling that I must say something.
"Why, yes. Try one of these cigars, Sir Aubrey," he added, producing a
large gold case from his inside breast pocket.
I had to take one, though I hated doing it. I tried to look him in the
face as I did so, but I couldn't. It was not that I feared he might
recognize me, for I did not—experience had proved to me that my
disguised appearance and voice were most effectual. But there was
something about the man that repelled me, and I hated meeting his gaze.
The noise of the train caused us presently to relapse into silence, and,
picking up my newspaper, I tried to read. My thoughts were too deeply
engrossed, however, to allow me to focus my attention on the printed
page. Could it really be possible, was what I kept wondering, that this
smooth-spoken, pleasant-mannered man was actually a criminal? Again
Harold Logan's dying eyes stared into mine; again I saw him struggling
to speak; again I heard those ominous words, almost the last words he
had spoken before his spirit had passed into Eternity:
"Hugesson Gastrell—don't forget that name, Sir Roland. You may some day
be glad I told it to you."
I shuddered. Then I remembered Preston's warning and the part I had to
play. Up to the present, Gastrell suspected nothing—of that I felt
positive; but let the least suspicion creep into his brain that I was
not the man he believed he had been speaking to—
Instantly I pulled myself together. For Dulcie's sake even more than for
my own I must exercise the utmost care. Her life as well as mine might
depend upon the skill and tact I must exercise during the next few
hours, possibly during the next few days. I felt I would at that moment
have given much to be able to look into the future and know for certain
what was going to happen to me, and, most of all, to Dulcie, before I
returned to England.
Well it was for my peace of mind that that wish could not be gratified.
On board the boat, rather to my surprise in view of what had happened
and of what Gastrell had just said to me, I saw nothing of Gastrell or
of any of his companions, including Preston. Apparently one and all must
have gone to their cabins immediately upon coming on board.
It was a perfect night in the Channel. Stars and moon shone brightly,
and a streak of light stretched away across the smooth water until it
touched the sky Hue far out in the darkness. For a long time I stood on
deck, abaft the funnel, smoking a cigar, and thinking deeply. I had
turned for a moment, for no particular reason, when I thought I saw a
shadow pass across the deck, then vanish. I saw it again; and then
again. Stepping away from where I stood, hidden by a life-boat, I
distinctly discerned three figures moving noiselessly along the deck,
going from me. Curiosity prompted me to follow them, and to my surprise
I saw them disappear one after another down the hatchway leading to the
steerage. As they must, I felt certain, have come out through the saloon
door, this rather puzzled me.
It was past midnight when, at last, I went below. The saloon,
smoking-room and alleyways were deserted and almost in darkness. No
sound of any sort was audible but the rhythmic throbbing of the
engines. The boat still travelled without the slightest motion.
Hark!
I stopped abruptly, for I had heard a sound—it had sounded like a gasp.
Hardly breathing, I listened intently. Again I heard it—this time more
faintly. It had seemed to come from a cabin on my left, a little
further forward.
I stood quite still in the alleyway for several minutes. Then, hearing
nothing more, I went on to my own cabin.
But somehow, try as I would, I could not get to sleep. For hours I lay
wide awake upon my bunk. What had caused that curious sound, I kept
wondering, though I tried to put the thought from me. And who had those
men been, those three silent figures passing like spectres along the
deck, and what had they been doing, and why had they gone down into
the steerage?
I suppose I must at last have fallen asleep, for when I opened my eyes
the sea had risen a good deal, and the boat was rolling heavily. Pulling
my watch from beneath my pillow, I saw that it was nearly four—we were
due into port at Dieppe before four. The timbers of the ship creaked at
intervals; the door of my cabin rattled; I could hear footsteps on deck
and in the alleyway beside my door.
"Have you heard the dreadful news, sir?" a scared-looking steward said
to me as I made my way towards the companion ladder half an hour
later—I had taken care to adjust my disguise exactly in the way that
Preston had taught me to.
"No—what?" I asked, stopping abruptly.
"A saloon passenger has hanged himself during the night."
"Good God!" I exclaimed. "Who is it?"
"I don't know his name. He was in number thirty-two—alone."
"Thirty-two! Surely that was a cabin in the alleyway where I had heard
the gasp, not far from my own cabin."
"Are you certain it was suicide?" I asked.
"Oh, it was suicide right enough," the steward answered, "and he must
have been hanging there some hours—by a rope. Seems he must have
brought the rope with him, as it don't belong to the boat. He must have
come aboard intending to do it. My mate—he found him not half an hour
ago, and it so scared him that he fainted right off."
"Have you seen the poor fellow? What was he like?"
"Yes. Most amazing thing, sir," the steward continued volubly, "but it
seems he'd disguised himself. He'd got on a wig and false moustache and
whiskers."
All the blood seemed to rush away from my heart. Everything about me was
going round. I have a slight recollection of reeling forward and being
caught by the steward, but of what happened after that, until I found
myself lying on a sofa in the saloon, with the ship's doctor and the
stewardess standing looking down at me. I have not the remotest
recollection.
The boat was rolling and pitching a good deal, and I remember hearing
someone say that we were lying off Dieppe until the sea should to some
extent subside. Then, all at once, a thought came to me which made me
feel sick and faint. While I had been unconscious, had the fact been
discovered that I too was disguised? I looked up with a feeling of
terror, but the expression upon the faces of the ship's doctor and of
the stewardess revealed nothing, and my mind grew more at ease when I
noticed that the few people standing about were strangers to me.
I saw nothing of any member of the group of criminals I now felt
literally afraid to meet until the Paris express was about to start.
More than once I had felt tempted to alter my plans by not going to
Paris, or by returning to England by the next boat. But then Dulcie had
risen into the vision of my imagination and I had felt I could not leave
her alone with such a gang of scoundrels—I might be leaving her to her
fate were I to desert her now. No, I had started upon this dangerous
adventure, and at all costs I must go through with it, even though I no
longer had poor Preston to advise me.
"Ah, Sir Aubrey, we have been looking for you."
I turned sharply, to find at my elbow Connie Stapleton and Doris
Lorrimer. The latter stood beside her friend, calm, subdued; Mrs.
Stapleton was in her usual high spirits, and greeted me with an effusive
hand-shake.
"Hughie told us you were on board," she said, "and he says you are going
to stay at our hotel. I am so pleased. Now, you must dine with us
to-night—no, I won't take a refusal," she added quickly, as I was about
to make some excuse. "We shall be such a cheery party—just the kind of
party I know you love."
There was no way of escape, at any rate for the moment. Later I must see
what could be done. My desire now was to keep, so to speak, in touch
with the gang, and to watch in particular Dulcie's movements, yet to
associate on terms of intimacy with these people as little as possible.
We had not been long in the train, on our way to Paris, when someone—it
was Dulcie who first spoke of it, I think—broached the subject which
had created so much excitement on board—the suicide of the
disguised stranger.
"I wonder if his act had any bearing upon this robbery which is said to
have been committed on board between Newhaven and Dieppe," a man whom I
remembered meeting at Connie Stapleton's dinner party, presently
observed—I suddenly remembered that his name was Wollaston.
"Robbery?" I exclaimed. "I have heard nothing about it. What was stolen?
and who was it stolen from?"
"Well," he answered, "the stories I have heard don't all tally, and one
or two may be exaggerated. But there is no doubt about the robbery of
Lady Fitzgraham's famous diamonds, which I have always heard were worth
anything between thirty and forty thousand pounds. She was coming over
to stay at the Embassy, and had them with her, it seems, in quite a
small dressing-bag. I am told she declares she is positive the stones
were in the bag, which was locked, when she went on board at Newhaven;
yet early this morning they were missing, though the bag was still
locked. The theory is that during the night someone must by some means
have forced an entrance to the cabin—they declare the cabin door was
locked, but of course it can't have been—in which she and her maid
slept, have unlocked the bag and extracted the jewels. Lady Fitzgraham
was travelling alone with her maid, I am told," he ended, "but Sir
Aubrey Belston travelled with her part way from London to Newhaven."
"You are talking to Sir Aubrey at this moment," Connie Stapleton said
quickly. She turned to me: "Sir Aubrey, let me introduce Mr. Wollaston."
"I beg your pardon," Wollaston stammered, "I had no idea—I know you by
name, of course, but I have not before, I believe, had the pleasure of
meeting you. It was Hughie Gastrell, whom I expect you know, who told me
he had seen you in Lady Fitzgraham's compartment on the way to Newhaven.
I suppose Lady Fitzgraham didn't, by any chance, speak to you of her
jewels—say she had them with her, or anything of that kind?"
"She didn't say a word about them," I answered. "Is she on this train?"
"Yes. Gastrell has gone to suggest to her that she should stay with us
at the 'Continental,' and—"
"Sir Aubrey has just decided to stay there," Mrs. Stapleton interrupted,
"and I have proposed that to-night we should all dine together."
Conversation then reverted to the suicide and the robbery, and as Connie
Stapleton's friends who shared the private car entered it, she
introduced them to me. They seemed pleasant people enough, and, as the
subject of conversation did not change, one after another they
propounded ingenious theories to account for the way the robbery might
have been committed. I noticed that they spoke less about the alleged
suicide, and that when the subject was broached they confined their
remarks chiefly to the question of the dead man's disguise, suggesting
reasons which they considered might have prompted him to disguise
himself. They ended by deciding there was no reason to suppose that the
suicide and the robbery had any bearing on each other.
The run from Dieppe to Paris by express takes about three hours, and we
were about half-way through the journey when Wollaston, who had been
absent at least half an hour, re-entered our compartment in
conversation with my recent travelling companion, whom I now knew to be
Lady Fitzgraham. She hardly acknowledged my look of recognition, and out
of the tail of my eye I saw Connie Stapleton glance quickly at each of
us in turn, as though Lady Fitzgraham's unmistakable stiffness
surprised her.
Now the train was running at high speed across the flat, uninteresting
stretch of country which lies about thirty miles south of Rouen.
Presently the Seine came in sight again, and for some miles we ran
parallel with it. We had just rushed through a little wayside station
beyond Mantes, the train oscillating so severely as it rattled over the
points that Dulcie, Connie Stapleton and Lady Fitzgraham became
seriously alarmed, while other occupants of the car glanced
apprehensively out of the windows.
"This car wants coupling up," Gastrell exclaimed suddenly. "At our next
stopping place I'll complain, and get it done."
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the swaying increased
considerably. All at once the brakes were applied with great force, the
train began to slacken speed, and a moment later we knew that we had
left the metals.
To this day it seems to me extraordinary that any of us should have
escaped with our lives. We probably should not have done so had the land
not been on a dead level with the rails at the point where the train
jumped the track. As a result, the cars did not telescope, as is usual
on such occasions, nor did they capsize. Instead, the locomotive dashed
forward over the flat, hard-frozen meadow, dragging the cars behind it,
then came gradually to a standstill owing to the steam having been
shut off.
My first thought as soon as the train had stopped was for Dulcie. As I
crawled along the car—for we had all been flung on to the ground—I
came upon her suddenly. Pale as death, and trembling terribly, she
stared at me with a scared expression, and so great was the wave of
emotion which swept over me at that instant that I all but forgot my
disguise in my wild longing to spring forward and take her in my arms
and comfort her.
"Are you hurt?" I gasped, retaining only with the utmost difficulty the
artificial tone I had adopted from the first, the tone poor Preston had
coached me in until my accents, so he had assured me, exactly resembled
those of Sir Aubrey Belston.
"No—no," came her answer, in a weak voice, "only shaken—but oh, the
thirst this shock has given me is fearful. Is there anything I
can drink?"
I looked about me. On all sides was a litter of hand-baggage that the
accident had hurled pell-mell about the car. Beside me was a large
dressing-bag lying on its side, partly open, the force of the blow as it
was flung up against the woodwork having burst the lock. Thinking there
might be something in it that I could give to Dulcie to relieve her
burning thirst, I set the bag upright, and pulled it wide open.
As my gaze rested upon the contents of that bag, astonishment made me
catch my breath. For the bag was half filled with jewellery of all
descriptions jumbled up as if it had been tossed in anyhow—there had
been no attempt at packing. During the brief moments which elapsed
before I shut the bag, I noticed rings, brooches, bracelets, scarf pins,
watches, hair combs and three large tiaras, all of them, apparently, set
in precious stones—mostly emeralds, rubies and diamonds.
Hastily closing the bag, and fastening the clips to keep it shut, I left
it where I had found it and was about to go in search of water, when the
sight I saw made my heart nearly stop beating.
For at the end of the car, standing motionless, and looking straight at
me, was Alphonse Furneaux! Almost as I returned his dull gaze the truth
seemed to drift into my brain. Furneaux must have escaped from Preston's
house, from the room where Preston had confined him. He must have
discovered that Preston was impersonating him. He must have followed him
from London, followed him on to the boat—
I dared not let my thoughts travel further. Horrible suspicions crowded
in upon me. Could the man standing there staring at me be Preston's
murderer? Was he aware of my identity too, and, if so, had he designs
upon my life as well? Had he told the gang I was now mixed up with of my
disguise, and had they entrapped me in order to wreak vengeance? And
that hoard of jewellery I had so unwittingly discovered—had the man now
standing there before me seen me looking at it?