When I sought Jack on the following morning I was informed by the
hall-porter that he had left a message for any callers that he had been
compelled to go to Barracks unexpectedly, and would be back from
Hounslow in the evening. Disappointed, I went into the City and had a
long talk with my father at the bank on the subject of finances, then
finished the day gossiping in the club and strolling in the Park. At
night, remembering the Countess' promise to be at Lady Hillingdon's
dance, I went there, but, in a marvellous gown of old rose, she was the
centre of a gay crowd of admirers, and I could obtain but few words with
her. I wanted to learn more of Sternroyd, but alas! I saw that
anything like a private conversation was out of the question, and was
compelled to content myself with waltzing and chatting with various
women I knew, for the most part gay, brainless butterflies.
In my state of mind the glare and glitter were nauseating and the music
jarred upon my nerves, therefore soon after one o'clock I left and drove
to Jack's chambers, anxious to seek the truth.
The outer door was shut, for the hall-porter had retired, but, as the
key of my own chambers had on many previous occasions opened it, I
quickly gained admittance. Mounting the great staircase to the door of
his flat, I rang twice, but Mrs Horton did not reside there and my
summons was not answered. Jack had evidently not returned, therefore
the thought suggested itself to enter with my key and leave a note, as I
had done many times before. Acting upon this suggestion, I went in,
groping my way down the small passage to his den, where the glimmering
light told me that his reading-lamp was burning; but just on the
threshold of the room my feet struck something in the darkness, and,
grasping wildly at air, I fell forward on my face, unable to save
myself.
I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped me
when next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared with
something damp and sticky.
"Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!" I cried, but in the darkness there
was neither sound nor movement.
Rushing into the study, I snatched up the light, and as its soft
radiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startling
that the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.
The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but Gilbert
Sternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!
Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerly
beneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. His
hands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.
His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedly
searched his victim's pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom door
lay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack's.
Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the white
drawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at a
loss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw that
such a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terrible
truth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetrated
the crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himself
jealous of this young man?
With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create a
noise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered I
noticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-table
were open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossed
aside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in the
room, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, black
tinder.
The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of documents.
Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had been
forced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he not
have used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quite
consumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp.
They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, the
characteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.
I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at the
side of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket.
In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with a
spectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. The
reading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners of
the room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurking
there. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, I
knew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime,
therefore, after a final glance at the dead man's face, I extinguished
the light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining the
street in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.
But all was quiet. I escaped unobserved.
On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd's blood,
and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight of
my own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of the
victim of the secret tragedy.
Having gulped down a stiff glass of brandy to steady my nerves, I
proceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of private
papers which effort had been made to destroy.
The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal document. In
a firm clerk's hand were the words "...and the said John Arthur Bethune
on this fourteenth day of..." upon one, and on the other "...undertake
to preserve this secret knowledge until after my death..."
The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered
conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were
evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage "...to
give credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totally
unfounded..." and another, "...I look to you as my friend to preserve
the reputation of a defenceless woman..." The name "Markwick" occurred
several times, and once it was "that vile, despicable coward, Markwick."
"That vile, despicable coward, Markwick," I repeated aloud. I reflected
deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature
upon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there
anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each
portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and
consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.
One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own
name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were
"...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance
of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I..."
"Great Heaven!" I cried aloud, "the writing is Sybil's!" I recognised
the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of
farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack's possession! Even these
half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we
were happy in each other's love.
At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in
his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular
Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the
post-mark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of
note-paper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following
words--"Tuesday--Dear Sir,--Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that
she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08
on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter,
and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there
may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges
that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some
unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her,
kindly telegraph to me personally.--Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe."
Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers
silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was "her ladyship?" Was it old
Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady's maid,
and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by
means of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this would
necessarily occupy time.
I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton's maid,
Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel's was a French girl, named
Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I
remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from
Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet,
unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions
when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there,
and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack's
correspondent, showed that "her ladyship," whoever she was, took every
precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter
upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the
unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the
appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with
her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman's lover? Was he playing a double
game?
I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that
he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not
believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.
"Proof," I murmured aloud. "What greater proof can I have than the
evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?"
I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a
portion of Sybil's letter. Apparently a secret had existed between
them.
From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterious
surroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that Jack
Bethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatal
shot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?
He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayed
his hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and his
eagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurred
to me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was his
feeling.
Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon my
table, but from them could gather no further information. The message
from the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet its
true significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that the
meeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabel
was Sternroyd's friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square he
had inadvertently referred to her as "Mab;" therefore, after all, it
seemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke in
such veiled terms of "unpleasantness."
The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed
hour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I was
wondering who was Markwick, the "vile, despicable coward," and dreading
the result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph to
Hounslow to ascertain Jack's whereabouts, lest by so doing I should
betray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what might
perhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidence
that might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep it
secret, at least for the present, and by that means assist my friend,
even if he were guilty, to escape.
In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would go
there to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the police
would raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journals
would be full of "Another West-End Mystery."
I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an assassin, perhaps
assisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidence
of Jack's guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.
I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saunders
entered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched,
but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to find
mention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came from
Jack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terrible
secret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted air
or the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into the
club and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on the
first floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip and
pass the time. When I entered I found several city men had grouped
themselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, were
discussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had no
interest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their Stock
Exchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to prick
up my ears.
"Bah! he'd become one of our directors at once if we made it worth his
while," an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a long
cigar between his lips.
"I doubt it," another voice exclaimed. "His name carries weight, but
he's not in want of fees."
"If he isn't at this moment he very soon will be," the other answered
knowingly. "He's now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with."
"I don't believe that," the others cried in chorus.
"My dear fellows," answered the elder man. "His pretty wife has
absolutely ruined him. Another year, and he'll be in the Bankruptcy
Court."
"Well, she's cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now," exclaimed one.
"I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simply
magnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair,
insipid-looking youth. Nobody knew who he was."
"The latest lover, I suppose," laughed the man who had announced the
Earl's impending bankruptcy. "If report speaks true she's rather
addicted to flirtation."
"No doubt," observed one of his companions. "But we're discussing
business just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of the
Countess don't concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on our
board. Can it be done?"
"Yes," promptly answered the man who had first spoken. "I'll manage
it."
"If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the Great
Watersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl's name carries
weight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremely
beneficial to us."
"Very well. I'll call on him to-morrow," the man said, blowing a cloud
of smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon some
technicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere in
Mashona-land.
Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financial
difficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact,
and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not help
feeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I had
overheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that her
entertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smart
circle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were facts
known to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills at
Worth's and Redfern's since her marriage must have been as large as
those of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her,
dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out of
date an unforgivable offence against Society's laws. She had lately
been living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had become
notorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to be
enormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never once
entered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had good
grounds for his assertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, as
I descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at Lady
Stretton's, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.
Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now lay
dead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had with
my adored one, or with that grim untenanted mansion in Gloucester
Square? I took the portrait from my pocket and in the fading light
glanced at it as I slowly walked. Yes, there was no mistaking the
features, nor the oddly-shaped scarf-pin. It was undoubtedly the same
man.