My mother, I ascertained from a letter a few days later, had invited
Dora to remain with her a week, and Jack, still my father's guest, was
therefore basking in the smiles of the woman he loved. How long would
this continue, I wondered. Suspected and surrounded by spies and
enemies, Jack Bethune must, I felt certain, sooner or later betray his
terrible secret, either by word or deed, and then the assize court would
be the portal to the gallows. I pitied Dora, well knowing what a
crushing blow must sooner or later fall to dispel her day-dreams and
shatter her air-built castles. I pitied Jack, because I had seen in his
haggard, care-worn face only too plainly the terrible pangs of
conscience that, torturing him by day and night, were goading him
towards his doom.
Beauty is one of the rarest and most desirable things in nature. Dora
Stretton, with her calm beauty, with its hints of animation and passion,
with her accomplishment of form and sweetness of voice, was one of those
ravishing creatures for whose smiles men do great deeds, for whom men
fight and die, through whom they feel that sudden throb of the heart
that lifts them beyond the common round. The sweet, bright-eyed woman
who loved this murderer was one of those who make the joy, the poetry,
the tragedy of life. Alas! that it should have been so.
The papers were full of laudatory reviews of Bethune's new book, "The
Siren of Strelitz," and while everywhere the opinion was expressed that
the "soldier-novelist" had never done better work, the popular author
himself was clinging to the last hours of his happiness with Dora,
trembling at each approaching footstep, and expecting arrest at any
moment. A dozen, nay, a hundred, times I sat and calmly reflected
whether I had the slightest shadow of doubt in my own mind that he was
Gilbert's murderer; but I could find none. I alone had, by strange
mischance, discovered the body, and when I had returned he refused to
allow me to enter one of the rooms. He had locked the door in my face.
In there the body had been hidden, and thence, by the exercise of some
deep cunning, the nature of which I was unaware, he had removed it and
disposed of it in such a manner that discovery was impossible. He had
hidden every trace of this terrible deed, and there remained only myself
as witness against him.
I had seen the body. My evidence alone might send him to a murderer's
grave.
But if, finding himself cornered, he wove a web about me, in what plight
should I find myself? This startling thought impressed itself upon me
one morning as, sitting alone in my chambers, I had been reading a
half-column of "Latest Details" hashed up by an enterprising reporter
who had carefully "written around the facts" without carrying his reader
any further. There was just a chance that Bethune might give
information against me and cause my arrest. In such circumstances it
would, I realised not without alarm, be very easy for him to give some
damning circumstantial evidence. Yet he could not allege that he had
found me searching the spot where the body had lain, otherwise his
evidence would show that he had previous knowledge of the crime, and
some awkward cross-examination would follow regarding the disposal of
the body. No! Careful consideration of any evidence that might be
given against me brought me to the gratifying conclusion that he dare
not adopt the bold course of accusing me of firing the fatal shot I had
determined to seek a solution of the mysterious link that I felt more
than ever convinced connected the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd with
my strange marriage and Sybil's death; yet I knew not in what direction
to seek. The Countess had admittedly been acquainted with her; Markwick
had, I knew from personal knowledge, held some mystic influence over
her; and the murdered man had known her so intimately that, at her own
desire, their photographs had been exhibited together in Regent Street.
Either Mabel or Markwick could, if they chose, tear aside the veil and
present the facts undistorted; but from neither could I hope for any
assistance, for the man had disclaimed all knowledge of me prior to our
formal introduction at Wadenhoe, while Lady Fyneshade made perjury the
price of her secret.
I had, therefore, to act on my own initiative, as before, and again at
this time the strange words written on my card that had been attached to
the wreath in Woking Cemetery urged me to still prosecute my search
after truth. The mysterious message, apparently from the dead and
intended no doubt for me, had read, "Seek and you may find." That hour
I renewed my search with increased vigour and a keen desire to revenge
the death of Sybil, which I felt convinced had been brought about by
foul play.
For many days I wandered aimlessly about London, expecting to hear of
Jack's arrest, and scarcely daring to glance at the contents bills of
the evening papers lest my eyes should fall upon the words I dreaded
there to see.
Since my meeting with Sybil and the inexplicable and startling events
that had followed I had become so utterly world-weary that I cared
nothing for the festivities I attended. I accepted invitations merely
out of habit, but truth to tell, had it not been for the keen desire to
elucidate the ever-deepening mystery I should have returned to the
country or gone abroad. I felt, however, that in London alone a clue
might be discovered, therefore I remained; but, although day after day,
I racked my brains in an endeavour to form some plan of action, I could
see no ray of light through the impenetrable veil. On several occasions
I had met Grindlay accidentally, and had tried in vain to learn from him
whether any further evidence had been obtained against Bethune. He
always affected ignorance, and the only point on which he deigned to
enlighten me was that the two men he had pointed out to me at the Empire
had successfully succeeded in eluding him.
Dora, having remained three weeks at Wadenhoe, had returned to Lady
Stretton at Blatherwycke, and was daily expected in town for the season;
Jack had left and gone to North Wales, for the purpose of getting local
colour for a new historical romance dealing with life in Wales in the
sixteenth century; and, as far as I could ascertain, the Earl of
Fyneshade had gone to the Continent. I had not seen Mabel for nearly a
month, and had not the slightest desire to meet her, but I heard rumours
that she went about a good deal with Markwick, who was a constant
visitor at her house. The Earl's friendship with this man on that
memorable evening at the Empire was extraordinary. There was some deep
motive underlying his feigned good-nature, but what it was I was utterly
unable to discover. That it must be of a sinister character I knew, but
further I could surmise nothing.
Alone, my brain ever racked by the torments of this tantalising mystery,
I strove with every endeavour to learn something of the movements of the
polished adventurer who had been designated as a "vile, despicable
coward," but could hear little beyond the fact that Mabel and he were
close friends.
She had distinctly denied the insinuation that there was a liaison
between them, and I confess I believed her words were true. If he had
not been attracted by her beauty then his friendship meant conspiracy.
The conversation I had overheard at Blatherwycke was sufficient proof of
this.
It was in a despairing, uncertain state of mind when, alone in my room
one afternoon, I reverently drew Sybil's portrait from its hiding-place
and looked lingeringly at it. Her grave eyes peered forth with just
that sweet expression of sadness that had puzzled me in that gay little
mountain town where we had first met. What strange secret was hidden in
her mind? What suspicion, deep rooted, terrible perhaps, had caused
that woeful look upon her flawless countenance? Through my brain there
floated memories of the past--sweet, tender memories of the few
brilliant sun-lit idle days among the mountains; sad, bitter memories of
a never-to-be-forgotten night, each event of which was photographed
indelibly upon my memory. All recurred to me. The meeting with
Markwick at Richmond, his devilish cunning, and the weird and tragic
ceremony in that mysterious mansion. The recollection of the house in
Gloucester Square caused me to deeply ponder. I remembered that I had
set out to inspect the place on one occasion, and the persons who had
prevented me had been Mabel and her murdered admirer, Gilbert. Was
there any reason why she had met me at the door? Could it have been
possible that she had followed me with the determination that I should
not enter there? On calm reflection it certainly seemed as if such had
actually been the case, even though I remembered there was a board up
announcing that the great house was to let.
I locked the photograph away and sat motionless for a long time
thinking, at last resolving to revisit the house. I had a morbid desire
to again stand in that great drawing-room wherein I had been married,
and where Sybil had died; I wanted to inspect the house and refresh my
memory as to its details. The solution of the mystery was now the sole
object of my life. All previous effort having failed, I determined to
revert again to the very beginning.
That afternoon I drove past the house in a cab, and taking notice of the
address of the firm of estate agents who, according to the notice-board,
had the letting of it, went on to their office in Sloane Street,
arriving there just as they were closing. I ascertained that the house
had been let six months before to an Indian merchant, named Fryer, who
had signed an agreement for five years. I observed that the house was
still empty and the board had not been removed, whereupon the clerk told
me that the new tenant had, before returning to India, said it was
probable that he would not return to take possession for perhaps another
year.
"I have a very keen desire to go over the place," I said disappointedly,
after he had told me that they had given up the key. "Some relatives of
mine once lived there, and the house has so many pleasant memories for
me. Is it absolutely impossible to obtain entrance to it?"
"I'm afraid so, sir," the man answered. "The tenant has possession. It
is his own fault that the board has not been removed."
"Come," I said, bending over the counter towards him, "I feel sure the
tenant would not object to me going over the place. Here is my card,
and if there are any little out-of-pocket expenses I'm prepared to pay
them, you know."
He smiled and glanced at me with a knowing air, as if calculating the
amount of the "tip" that I might be expected to disburse, and then
exclaimed in a low tone so that his fellow-clerks should not overhear:
"The case is rather peculiar. Although this Mr Fryer has taken the
house and we have given up the key, yet to effect an entrance would
really be easy enough. You must keep secret from the firm what I tell
you, but the fact is when the house was first put into our hands, some
years ago, we had a caretaker who did not live on the premises, and as
we required to keep a key here in case anyone called to go over the
house, we had to have a duplicate key made for him. We have that key
still in our possession."
Slowly I drew from my vest-pocket a sovereign and slipped it unobserved
into his palm, saying: "Lend me that key until to-morrow."
He walked away with a business-like air in order to disarm any suspicion
that he had been bribed, returned with a ledger, commenced to recommend
other houses, and subsequently gave me a latch-key, with one
stipulation, that it must be returned to him at 9:30 next morning.
While hurrying along Knightsbridge I met Fyneshade unexpectedly, and
wishing to hear about Mabel and Markwick, accepted his invitation to
dine at the St Stephen's Club, instead of going on direct to Gloucester
Square. During the meal I learnt that since the evening I had left him
stealing from his house like a thief, he had not returned there. Only
that morning he had arrived back from Rome, and knew nothing of Mabel or
of the man who, according to her statement, had been the cause of their
estrangement. Finding that he could give me no information, I excused
myself soon after dinner, and purchasing a cheap bull's-eye lantern and
a box of matches in a back street in Westminster, entered a hansom.
Had it not been for the fact that I had promised to return the key to
the house-agent's clerk at that early hour in the morning, I would have
gladly postponed my investigations until daylight, but hindered as I had
been by Fyneshade, it was nearly half-past nine when I alighted from the
cab at the corner of Hyde Park and walked to Radnor Place, where the
front entrance of the houses forming one side of Gloucester Square are
situated. Halting under the great dark portico of number seventy-nine,
I glanced up and down the street. The lamps shed only a dim sickly
light, the street was deserted, and the quiet only broken by the
monotonous tinkling of a cab-bell somewhere in Southwick Crescent, and
the howling of a distant dog.
I am not naturally nervous, but I confess I did not like the prospect of
entering that great gloomy mansion alone. This main entrance being at
the rear, only one or two staircase-windows looked out upon the street
in which I stood, and all were closely barred. About the exterior, with
its grimy conservatory, mud-bespattered door, and littered steps, there
seemed an indescribable mysteriousness. I found myself hesitating.
What profit could an intimate knowledge of this place be to me? I asked
myself. But I answered the question by reflecting that the place was
empty, therefore there was at least nothing to fear as long as I got in
unobserved. If the police detected me I should, in all probability, be
compelled to go to the nearest station and submit to a cross-examination
by an inspector.
All was quiet, and, having no time to lose, I therefore slipped out the
key, inserted it in the heavy door, and a few seconds later stood in the
spacious hall with the door closed behind me. For a moment the total
darkness unnerved me, and my heart thumped so quickly that I could hear
its beating. I remembered how, while on a similar night search, I had
discovered the body of Gilbert Sternroyd.
Quickly I lit my lantern, and by its welcome light stole along, making
no sound. The darkness seemed to envelope me, causing me to fear making
any noise. There was a close, musty smell about the place, a combined
odour of dirt and mildew; but as I flashed my lamp hither and thither
into the most distant corners, I was surprised to discover the size of
the hall, the magnificence of the great crystal chandelier, and the
beauty of the crystal balustrades and banisters of the wide handsome
staircase. The paintings in the hall were old family portraits, but
over them many spiders had spun their webs, which also waved in festoons
from the chandelier and from the ceiling. Years must have elapsed since
the place had been cleaned, yet it was strange, for on my visit on the
night of Sybil's death I had not noticed these signs of neglect.
The place had then been brilliantly lit; now all was dark, squalid, and
funereal.
Room after room on the ground floor I entered. The doors of most of
them were open, but all the apartments were encrusted by the dust and
cobwebs of years. The furniture, some of it green with mildew, was
slowly decaying, the hangings had in many places rotted and fallen,
while the lace curtains that still remained at the closely-shuttered
windows, were perfectly black with age.
It was a house full of grim shadows of the past. The furniture, of a
style in vogue a century ago, was handsome and costly, but irretrievably
ruined by neglect. Fully half an hour I occupied in exploring the
basement and ground-floor, then slowly I ascended the wide staircase in
search of the well-remembered room wherein I had unwittingly been one of
the contracting parties to as strange a marriage ceremony as had ever
been performed.