Three weeks later Austin received a note from Villiers, asking him to
call either that afternoon or the next. He chose the nearer date, and
found Villiers sitting as usual by the window, apparently lost in
meditation on the drowsy traffic of the street. There was a bamboo table
by his side, a fantastic thing, enriched with gilding and queer painted
scenes, and on it lay a little pile of papers arranged and docketed as
neatly as anything in Mr. Clarke's office.
'Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three weeks?'
'I think so; I have here one or two memoranda which struck me as
singular, and there is a statement to which I shall call your
attention.'
'And these documents relate to Mrs. Beaumont? It was really Crashaw whom
you saw that night standing on the doorstep of the house in Ashley
Street?'
'As to that matter my belief remains unchanged, but neither my inquiries
nor their results have any special relation to Crashaw. But my
investigations have had a strange issue. I have found out who Mrs.
Beaumont is!'
'Who she is? In what way do you mean?'
'I mean that you and I know her better under another name.'
'What name is that?'
'Herbert.'
'Herbert!' Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment.
'Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures
unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face;
when you go home look at the face in Meyrick's book of horrors, and you
will know the sources of your recollection.'
'And you have proof of this?'
'Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say Mrs.
Herbert?'
'Where did you see her?'
'Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in
Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the
meanest and most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an
appointment, though not with her, and she was precise both to time and
place.'
'All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You
must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary
adventure of London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her
coffee in a commonplace drawing-room with commonplace people. But you
know what you are saying.'
'I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies. It
was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs.
Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been the
issue.'
'You must have been in strange places, Villiers.'
'Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless,
you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a
short sketch of her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume,
that her record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain that
at some previous time she must have moved in circles not quite so
refined as her present ones. If you see mud on the top of a stream, you
may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I went to the bottom. I have
always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my amusement, and I
found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very useful. It
is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the name of
Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable to
describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The people there
know me; I have been able to do some of them a service now and again, so
they made no difficulty about giving their information; they were aware
I had no communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard. I had to
cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I wanted, and when
I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it was my fish. But I
listened to what I was told out of a constitutional liking for useless
information, and I found myself in possession of a very curious story,
though, as I imagined, not the story I was looking for. It was to this
effect. Some five or six years ago, a woman named Raymond suddenly made
her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am referring. She was
described to me as being quite young, probably not more than seventeen
or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if she came from the country.
I should be wrong in saying that she found her level in going to this
particular quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I
was told, I should think the worst den in London far too good for her.
The person from whom I got my information, as you may suppose, no great
Puritan, shuddered and grew sick in telling me of the nameless infamies
which were laid to her charge. After living there for a year, or perhaps
a little more, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, and they saw
nothing of her till about the time of the Paul Street case. At first she
came to her old haunts only occasionally, then more frequently, and
finally took up her abode there as before, and remained for six or eight
months. It's of no use my going into details as to the life that woman
led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick's legacy. Those
designs were not drawn from his imagination. She again disappeared, and
the people of the place saw nothing of her till a few months ago. My
informant told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he
pointed out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two or
three times a week and always at ten in the morning. I was led to expect
that one of these visits would be paid on a certain day about a week
ago, and I accordingly managed to be on the look-out in company with my
cicerone at a quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal
punctuality. My friend and I were standing under an archway, a little
way back from the street, but she saw us, and gave me a glance that I
shall be long in forgetting. That look was quite enough for me; I knew
Miss Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs. Beaumont she had quite gone
out of my head. She went into the house, and I watched it till four
o'clock, when she came out, and then I followed her. It was a long
chase, and I had to be very careful to keep a long way in the
background, and yet not lose sight of the woman. She took me down to
the Strand, and then to Westminster, and then up St. James's Street, and
along Piccadilly. I felt queerish when I saw her turn up Ashley Street;
the thought that Mrs. Herbert was Mrs. Beaumont came into my mind, but
it seemed too improbable to be true. I waited at the corner, keeping my
eye on her all the time, and I took particular care to note the house at
which she stopped. It was the house with the gay curtains, the house of
flowers, the house out of which Crashaw came the night he hanged himself
in his garden. I was just going away with my discovery, when I saw an
empty carriage come round and draw up in front of the house, and I came
to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was going out for a drive, and I was
right. I took a hansom and followed the carriage into the Park. There,
as it happened, I met a man I know, and we stood talking together a
little distance from the carriage-way, to which I had my back. We had
not been there for ten minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I
glanced round and saw the lady I had been following all day. "Who is
that?" I said, and his answer was, "Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley
Street." Of course there could be no doubt after that. I don't know
whether she saw me, but I don't think she did. I went home at once, and,
on consideration, I thought that I had a sufficiently good case with
which to go to Clarke.'
'Why to Clarke?'
'Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this
woman, facts of which I know nothing.'
'Well, what then?'
Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked reflectively at Austin
for a moment before he answered:
'My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.'
'You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, Villiers, you
cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result ...'
'I will tell you soon. But I was going to say that my information does
not end here; it has been completed in an extraordinary manner.
'Look at this neat little packet of manuscript; it is paginated, you
see, and I have indulged in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape.
It has almost a legal air, hasn't it? Run your eye over it, Austin. It
is an account of the entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her
choicer guests. The man who wrote this escaped with his life, but I do
not think he will live many years. The doctors tell him he must have
sustained some severe shock to the nerves.'
Austin took the manuscript, but never read it. Opening the neat pages at
haphazard his eye was caught by a word and a phrase that followed it;
and, sick at heart, with white lips and a cold sweat pouring like water
from his temples, he flung the paper down.
'Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this again. Are you made of
stone, man? Why, the dread and horror of death itself, the thoughts of
the man who stands in the keen morning air on the black platform, bound,
the bell tolling in his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle of the
bolt, are as nothing compared to this. I will not read it; I should
never sleep again.'
'Very good. I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it is horrible enough; but
after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day, and in
dim London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive
gardens. We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great
God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of
something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite symbol beneath
which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret
forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the
souls of men must wither and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken
under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be
spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to
the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale.
But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that
may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh;
that which is without form taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can
it be? How is it that the very sunlight does not turn to blackness
before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath such a burden?'
Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads of sweat stood
out on his forehead. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw him
make a sign upon his breast.
'I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as
that? You would never pass out alive.'
'Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive--I, and Clarke with me.'
'What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare ...'
'Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning; there
was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I thought I
would take a walk. Piccadilly stretched before me a clear, bright vista,
and the sun flashed on the carriages and on the quivering leaves in the
park. It was a joyous morning, and men and women looked at the sky and
smiled as they went about their work or their pleasure, and the wind
blew as blithely as upon the meadows and the scented gorse. But somehow
or other I got out of the bustle and the gaiety, and found myself
walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where there seemed to be no
sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers loitered as they
walked, and hung indecisively about corners and archways. I walked
along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I did there, but feeling
impelled, as one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a vague
idea of reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged up the street, noting
the small traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the incongruous
medley of penny pipes, black tobacco, sweets, newspapers, and comic
songs which here and there jostled one another in the short compass of a
single window. I think it was a cold shudder that suddenly passed
through me that first told me that I had found what I wanted. I looked
up from the pavement and stopped before a dusty shop, above which the
lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred years ago had
grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to themselves the fog
and the dirt of winters innumerable. I saw what I required; but I think
it was five minutes before I had steadied myself and could walk in and
ask for it in a cool voice and with a calm face. I think there must
even then have been a tremor in my words, for the old man who came out
from his back parlour, and fumbled slowly amongst his goods, looked
oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what he asked, and stood
leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance to take up my goods
and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and
the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it was
before traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty years ago,
"just before my father died," he said. I got away at last, and walked
along sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I was glad to return
to the bustle and the noise. Would you like to see my purchase?'
Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked white
and sick. Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and showed
Austin a long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a running
noose.
'It is the best hempen cord,' said Villiers, 'just as it used to be made
for the old trade, the man told me. Not an inch of jute from end to
end.'
Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he
looked.
'You would not do it,' he murmured at last. 'You would not have blood on
your hands. My God!' he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence, 'you cannot
mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a hangman?'
'No. I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this
cord in a locked room for fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not
done, I shall call the nearest policeman. That is all.'
'I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this.
Good-night.'
'Good-night, Austin.'
The door shut, but in a moment it was opened again, and Austin stood,
white and ghastly, in the entrance.
'I was forgetting,' he said, 'that I too have something to tell. I have
received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says that he
attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.'
'And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not
fever?'
'No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter collapse
of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But he states
that the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was consequently at
some disadvantage in treating the case.'
'Is there anything more?'
'Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: "I think this is all the
information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long
in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a
person who did not bear the best of characters, and has since left--a
Mrs. Vaughan."'