There were no late risers at Belmont on that morning, for even the
elder ladies, who were not going to Ascot but meant to remain at home
and pass the day pleasantly in their own society, made it a point of
being early. The younger ones, with Miss Norris the very first down,
were a sight that was charming to the gentlemen, with their pretty new
gowns prepared especially for the occasion; but of them all, none
looked fairer than Ida. Her disturbed rest had made her, perhaps, a
little paler than usual, but had thus only added a more delicate tinge
to her loveliness. As she stood talking to young Montagu on the
verandah, this youth began to wish that he was Lord Penlyn, and to
think that there were other things in the world better than going
_Banco_ or backing winners--or losers! Indefatigable in everything
connected with sport, the young man, in company with two other
visitors, officers who had been in India and had become accustomed to
early rising, had already ridden over to Ascot to learn what was going
on there, and to see if any information could be picked up.
"And now, Miss Raughton," he said, "to breakfast with what appetite we
can? And I can assure you that, if old Wolsey had only half as good a
one as mine is now, King Hal wouldn't have frightened him into saying,
'good-bye' to all the good things in life."
Ida laughed at his nonsense, and then, every one being down, the first
important part of the day's proceedings began.
The story of an Ascot party has been told so often and so well, that
no other pen is needed to describe it. There are few of us who, either
in long vanished or in very recent days, have not formed part in one
of these pleasant outings; who have not sat upon a coach, with some
young lady beside us, who seemed, at least for the time being, to be
the prettiest and nicest girl in the world; who have not eaten our
fill of lobster salad and pigeon pie, and drunk our fill of champagne
and claret cup!
Sir Paul's party went through it all; the gentlemen (with Mr. Montagu
very busy at this) dashing across the course between each race, and
into the Grand Stand to "see about the odds." Flip Flap disgraced
himself terribly in the Gold Vase, and came in last of all, much to
Sir Paul's disgust, who regretted now that he had not laid his old
friend four to one in hundreds, but to the intense delight of young
Montagu, who had persuaded Fulke to take the same odds in tens from
him.
"Hoorah!" he cried, as the beaten favourite came in with the crowd,
"now, if 'Tilda will only pull off the Stakes, I am bound to score
heavily to-day."
And he dashed off across the course again, to see what the betting was
about the magnificent mare whose name he so familiarly shortened.
Ida sat very peacefully on the coach listening to all the laughter and
conversation that was going on around her, but taking very little part
in it, except when directly spoken to. But in the intervals, when it
was not necessary for her to join in it, her mind reverted to things
and persons far away from the bright, sunny racecourse. In her heart,
she did feel hurt that, whatever important business transactions he
might have, her lover could not find time to run down for even one
day. It was evidently supposed by some one that he was with her, for
only that morning a letter had come to Belmont for him, a letter which
she had instantly reposted to the hotel he was staying at accompanied
by a loving one from herself which she had found time to write
hastily. It had seemed to her that she knew the handwriting, and she
supposed it must be from some common friend of theirs; but, whoever
the writer was, he evidently thought Gervase was with them. She
supposed he really was very much occupied, but still she wished he
would come for one day; and she made up her mind to write to him again
that night, and ask him to run down for the Cup. He could leave town
at midday and be back at seven; surely he could spare that much time
to her! Nor had she forgotten her dream, her horrid dream, and she
wondered over and over again why she should have had such a dreadful
one, and why last night? Perhaps it was the storm that had affected
her!
Once more young Montagu's star was in the ascendant, for Lady Matilda
beat all her adversaries, and, to use a sporting phrase, "romped in"
for the Stakes. There was great rejoicing over this on the Belmont
coaches, of which there were two, one driven by Sir Paul and one by
Mr. Fulke; for most of them had backed her with the bookmakers, and
so, while they all won, there was no loser in the party. Miss Norris,
too, had won a dozen of gloves from Fulke, who took the field against
the horse he fancied to oblige the girl he admired, and Sir Paul had
promised Ida anything she liked to ask for if Lady Matilda only got
home first.
Of course, after the last race, there was an adjournment of the whole
party to the lawn; who goes to Ascot without also going to sit for a
while in one of the prettiest scenes attached to a racecourse in
England? There, seated on comfortable chairs on that soft velvet lawn,
with the hot June sun sinking conveniently behind the Grand Stand, the
party remained peacefully and chatted until the horses should be put
to.
It was at this time that, to the different groups scattered about,
there came a rumour that a horrible murder had been committed in
London last night, or early that morning. A few persons, who had come
down by the last special train, had heard something about it, but they
did not know anything of the details; and two or three copies of the
first editions of the evening papers had arrived, but they told very
little, except that undoubtedly a murder had taken place, and that the
victim was, to all appearances, a gentleman. Had it been a common
murder in the Seven Dials, or the East End, it would hardly have
aroused attention at aristocratic Ascot.
Young Montagu first heard it from a bookmaker with whom he was having
a satisfactory settlement, but that worthy knew nothing except that
"some one said it was a swell, and that he had been stabbed to the
'eart in the Park."
"Get a paper, Montagu," the baronet said, "and let us, see what it is.
Every one seems to be discussing it."
"Easier said than done, Sir Paul!" the other answered. "But I'll try."
He came back in a few moments, having succeeded in borrowing a second
edition from a friend, and he read out to them the particulars, which
were by no means full. It appeared that, after the storm in London was
over, which was about three o'clock in the morning, a policeman going
on his walk down the Mall of St. James' Park, had come across a
gentleman lying by the railings that divide that part of it from the
gardens, a gentleman whom he at first took to be overcome by drink. On
shaking him, however, he discovered him to be dead, and he then
thought that he must have been struck by lightning. A further glance
showed that this was not the case, as he perceived that the
dead man was stabbed in the region of the heart, that his watch
and chain had been wrenched away (there being a broken piece of the
chain left in the button-hole), and, if he had any, his papers and
pocket-book taken. His umbrella, which was without any name or
engraving, was by his side his linen, which was extremely fine, was
unmarked, and his clothes, although drenched with mud and rain, were
of the best possible quality. That, up to now, was all the information
the paper possessed.
"How dreadful to think of a man being murdered in such a public place
as that!" Ida said. "Surely the murderer cannot long escape!"
"I don't know about that," Mr. Fulke said. "The Mall at three o'clock
in the morning, especially on such a morning--what a storm it was!--is
not very much frequented. A man walking down it might easily be
attacked and robbed!"
"It is a nice state of affairs, when a gentleman cannot walk about
London without being murdered," Sir Paul said. "But horrible things
seem to happen every day now."
The public were leaving the lawn by this time, and one of the grooms
came over to say that the coaches were ready. There was no longer
anything to stay for, and so they all went back and took their places,
and started for Belmont.
It was a glorious evening after a glorious day; and as they went
along, some laughing and talking, some flirting, and some discussing
the day's racing and speculating on that of the morrow, they had
forgotten all about the tragedy they had heard of half-an-hour
earlier. Not one of them supposed that the murdered man was likely to
be known to them, nor that that crime had broken up their Ascot week.
But when they had returned to Belmont, and gone to their rooms to
dress for dinner, they learnt that the dead man was known to most of
them. A telegram had come to Sir Paul from his butler in London,
saying: "The gentleman murdered in St. James' Park last night was Mr.
Cundall. He has been identified by his butler and servants."