THE SUICIDES

Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty he had

been a poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family, but

forced to earn a livelihood as best he could, and the most speculative

of money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fifty pounds on the

chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and his poverty for a

great fortune. His father had been near enough to the fountain of good

things to secure one of the family livings, but the son, even if he had

taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so much as this, and moreover

felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate. Thus he fronted the

world with no better armour than the bachelor's gown and the wits of a

younger son's grandson, with which equipment he contrived in some way to

make a very tolerable fight of it. At twenty-five Mr. Charles Aubernoun

saw himself still a man of struggles and of warfare with the world, but

out of the seven who stood between him and the high places of his family

three only remained. These three, however, were 'good lives,' but yet

not proof against the Zulu assegais and typhoid fever, and so one

morning Aubernoun woke up and found himself Lord Argentine, a man of

thirty who had faced the difficulties of existence, and had conquered.

The situation amused him immensely, and he resolved that riches should

be as pleasant to him as poverty had always been. Argentine, after some

little consideration, came to the conclusion that dining, regarded as a

fine art, was perhaps the most amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity,

and thus his dinners became famous in London, and an invitation to his

table a thing covetously desired. After ten years of lordship and

dinners Argentine still declined to be jaded, still persisted in

enjoying life, and by a kind of infection had become recognized as the

cause of joy in others, in short, as the best of company. His sudden and

tragical death therefore caused a wide and deep sensation. People could

scarce believe it, even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and

the cry of 'Mysterious Death of a Nobleman' came ringing up from the

street. But there stood the brief paragraph: 'Lord Argentine was found

dead this morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It is

stated that there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide,

though no motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased nobleman was

widely known in society, and much liked for his genial manner and

sumptuous hospitality. He is succeeded by,' etc., etc.

By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remained a

mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the dead nobleman's valet,

who said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined with a

lady of good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaper

reports. At about eleven o'clock Lord Argentine had returned, and

informed his man that he should not require his services till the next

morning. A little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall and was

somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself out at the

front door. He had taken off his evening clothes, and was dressed in a

Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low brown hat. The valet had

no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him, and though his

master rarely kept late hours, thought little of the occurrence till the

next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom door at a quarter to nine

as usual. He received no answer, and, after knocking two or three

times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine's body leaning forward

at an angle from the bottom of the bed. He found that his master had

tied a cord securely to one of the short bed-posts, and, after making a

running noose and slipping it round his neck, the unfortunate man must

have resolutely fallen forward, to die by slow strangulation. He was

dressed in the light suit in which the valet had seen him go out, and

the doctor who was summoned pronounced that life had been extinct for

more than four hours. All papers, letters, and so forth seemed in

perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointed in the most

remote way to any scandal either great or small. Here the evidence

ended; nothing more could be discovered. Several persons had been

present at the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted, and to

all these he seemed in his usual genial spirits. The valet, indeed, said

he thought his master appeared a little excited when he came home, but

he confessed that the alteration in his manner was very slight, hardly

noticeable, indeed. It seemed hopeless to seek for any clue, and the

suggestion that Lord Argentine had been suddenly attacked by acute

suicidal mania was generally accepted.

It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three more

gentlemen, one of them a nobleman, and the two others men of good

position and ample means, perished miserably in almost precisely the

same manner. Lord Swanleigh was found one morning in his dressing-room,

hanging from a peg affixed to the wall, and Mr. Collier-Stuart and Mr.

Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine. There was no explanation

in either case; a few bald facts; a living man in the evening, and a

dead body with a black swollen face in the morning. The police had been

forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest or to explain the

sordid murders of Whitechapel; but before the horrible suicides of

Piccadilly and Mayfair they were dumb-foundered, for not even the mere

ferocity which did duty as an explanation of the crimes of the East End,

could be of service in the West. Each of these men who had resolved to

die a tortured shameful death was rich, prosperous, and to all

appearances in love with the world, and not the acutest research could

ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either case. There was a

horror in the air, and men looked at one another's faces when they met,

each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of the fifth

nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain in their scrap-books for

materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morning paper

was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knew when or

where the blow would next light.

A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came to

see Mr. Villiers. He was curious to know whether Villiers had succeeded

in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, either through Clarke

or by other sources, and he asked the question soon after he had sat

down.

'No,' said Villiers, 'I wrote to Clarke, but he remains obdurate, and I

have tried other channels, but without any result. I can't find out what

became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street, but I think she must

have gone abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I haven't paid very

much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew poor

Herries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock to me,

a great shock.'

'I can well believe it,' answered Austin gravely; 'you know Argentine

was a friend of mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking of him

that day you came to my rooms.'

'Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs.

Beaumont's house. You said something about Argentine's dining there.'

'Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the night

before--before his death.'

'No, I haven't heard that.'

'Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont.

Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in a

terrible state for some time after.'

A curious look came over Villiers's face; he seemed undecided whether to

speak or not. Austin began again.

'I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read the account

of Argentine's death. I didn't understand it at the time, and I don't

now. I knew him well, and it completely passes my understanding for what

possible cause he--or any of the others for the matter of that--could

have resolved in cold blood to die in such an awful manner. You know how

men babble away each other's characters in London, you may be sure any

buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have been brought to light in

such a case as this; but nothing of the sort has taken place. As for the

theory of mania, that is very well, of course, for the coroner's jury,

but everybody knows that it's all nonsense. Suicidal mania is not

small-pox.'

Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers sat silent also, watching

his friend. The expression of indecision still fleeted across his face;

he seemed as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and the

considerations he was revolving left him still silent. Austin tried to

shake off the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as the

labyrinth of Daedalus, and began to talk in an indifferent voice of the

more pleasant incidents and adventures of the season.

'That Mrs. Beaumont,' he said, 'of whom we were speaking, is a great

success; she has taken London almost by storm. I met her the other night

at Fulham's; she is really a remarkable woman.'

'You have met Mrs. Beaumont?'

'Yes; she had quite a court around her. She would be called very

handsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which I

didn't like. The features are exquisite, but the expression is strange.

And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when I was going

home, I had a curious feeling that that very expression was in some way

or other familiar to me.'

'You must have seen her in the Row.'

'No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that which

makes it puzzling. And to the best of my belief I have never seen

anybody like her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vague

but persistent. The only sensation I can compare it to, is that odd

feeling one sometimes has in a dream, when fantastic cities and wondrous

lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed.'

Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in search

of something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell on an old

chest somewhat like that in which the artist's strange legacy lay hid

beneath a Gothic scutcheon.

'Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?' he asked.

'Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death. I

don't expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. I

thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman

named Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any

information about her. But it's very possible that Meyrick fell in with

her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to the

extent or direction of his travels.'

'Yes, and it's very possible that the woman may have more than one

name.'

'Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait of

her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr.

Matthews.'

'So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!

What are those boys calling?'

While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of shouting

had been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from the eastward and

swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very torrent of

sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making every window a frame

for a face, curious or excited. The cries and voices came echoing up

the silent street where Villiers lived, growing more distinct as they

advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang up from the pavement:

'The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!'

Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the

paragraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The

window was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.

'Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of

suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr.

Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King's Pomeroy, Devon, was

found, after a prolonged search, hanging from the branch of a tree in

his garden at one o'clock to-day. The deceased gentleman dined last

night at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits. He

left the Club at about ten o'clock, and was seen walking leisurely up

St. James's Street a little later. Subsequent to this his movements

cannot be traced. On the discovery of the body medical aid was at once

summoned, but life had evidently been long extinct. So far as is known,

Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or anxiety of any kind. This painful suicide,

it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the last month. The

authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest any explanation of

these terrible occurrences.'

Austin put down the paper in mute horror.

'I shall leave London to-morrow,' he said, 'it is a city of nightmares.

How awful this is, Villiers!'

Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into the

street. He had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and the

hint of indecision was no longer on his face.

'Wait a moment, Austin,' he replied, 'I have made up my mind to mention

a little matter that occurred last night. It is stated, I think, that

Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James's Street shortly after ten?'

'Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right.'

'Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all

events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o'clock this

morning.'

'You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?'

'Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet

between us.'

'Where, in Heaven's name, did you see him?'

'Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving a

house.'

'Did you notice what house it was?'

'Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont's.'

'Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. How

could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont's house at two o'clock in the morning?

Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers, you were always

rather fanciful.'

'No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say,

what I saw would have roused me effectually.'

'What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange about

Crashaw? But I can't believe it; it is impossible.'

'Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what I

think I saw, and you can judge for yourself.'

'Very good, Villiers.'

The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and then

the sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull, leaden

silence seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm. Villiers

turned from the window and began speaking.

'I was at a house near Regent's Park last night, and when I came away

the fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom. It was a

clear pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streets

pretty much to myself. It's a curious thing, Austin, to be alone in

London at night, the gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and the

dead silence, and then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on the

stones, and the fire starting up under the horse's hoofs. I walked along

pretty briskly, for I was feeling a little tired of being out in the

night, and as the clocks were striking two I turned down Ashley Street,

which, you know, is on my way. It was quieter than ever there, and the

lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as dark and gloomy as a forest

in winter. I had done about half the length of the street when I heard a

door closed very softly, and naturally I looked up to see who was abroad

like myself at such an hour. As it happens, there is a street lamp close

to the house in question, and I saw a man standing on the step. He had

just shut the door and his face was towards me, and I recognized Crashaw

directly. I never knew him to speak to, but I had often seen him, and I

am positive that I was not mistaken in my man. I looked into his face

for a moment, and then--I will confess the truth--I set off at a good

run, and kept it up till I was within my own door.'

'Why?'

'Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man's face. I could

never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passions could have

glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked. I knew I had

looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man's outward form

remained, but all hell was within it. Furious lust, and hate that was

like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror that seemed to shriek

aloud to the night, though his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness

of despair. I am sure he did not see me; he saw nothing that you or I

can see, but he saw what I hope we never shall. I do not know when he

died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, but when I passed down

Ashley Street and heard the closing door, that man no longer belonged to

this world; it was a devil's face I looked upon.'

There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceased

speaking. The light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was

quite hushed. Austin had bent his head at the close of the story, and

his hand covered his eyes.

'What can it mean?' he said at length.

'Who knows, Austin, who knows? It's a black business, but I think we had

better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate. I will see if

I cannot learn anything about that house through private channels of

information, and if I do light upon anything I will let you know.'