THE HOUSE AT KILBURN
ROBERT USHER returned with me to Chelsea and again took up his abode in
Keppel Street.
To him I explained the whole of the curious circumstances, our exciting
search after the hidden loot, and our utter failure—a narrative which
interested him greatly, and caused him to become enthusiastic in his
desire to render us assistance. I introduced him to Seal, Reilly, and
old Staffurth, and we all closely analyzed his story, which at first
seemed so extraordinary to us as to be beyond credence. Seal, however,
as a practical seaman, examined the plan which Usher drew, and gave it
as his opinion that the _Seahorse_ had been preserved in the manner
described by Usher. His theory was that the antique vessel had been
battened down for a storm, and that the rudder being carried away the
men on board were helpless. The gale also carried away the masts and
blew the wreck over the bar into the river, where she became wedged by
the rocky ledge, as Usher described. Then a sudden flood of the river
caused the waters to rise so rapidly that before the crew could open the
hatches and escape the vessel became submerged.
I suggested that the reason the crew stayed below was that being
storm-driven to the land of their enemies, the Corsairs, they feared
attack, therefore remained within their stronghold, hoping to float away
when the gale abated, but were unfortunately overwhelmed so suddenly
that escape became impossible. Death had no doubt come upon them
quickly, for we recollected that the interior showed no sign of recent
fighting, and that asphyxiation was evidently the cause of death.
The fate of Bennett and his men in that underground burrow caused us
considerable apprehension. We had, up to the present, successfully
combated the efforts of the gang to secure the treasure, but so
ingenious and ubiquitous were our enemies that we knew not when or where
they would turn up again. Reilly was of opinion that they were entombed,
but my own idea was that with Black Bennett as leader they would
certainly escape in some ingenious manner or other. I had a kind of
intuition that we had not yet seen the last of that interesting
quartette.
So far as we were concerned we had given up all hope of discovering the
gold at Caldecott Manor. It was surely tantalizing to read that long
list of the treasure in English, covering eighteen pages in the vellum
book—plates and dishes of gold, jewels in profusion, collars of pearls,
jewelled swords, packets of uncut gems, golden cups, and “seven chests
of yron each fylled wyth monie,” a list of objects which, if sold, meant
an ample fortune.
Accompanied by Reilly, I visited the house at Kilburn wherein the secret
tragedy had been enacted. We had but little difficulty in finding it, a
good-sized semi-detached place lying back behind some dark green
railings. A board showed that it was to let, and having obtained the key
at a house-agent’s in Edgware Road, we went over it as prospective
tenants. The furniture had been removed, but on the floor-boards of the
upstairs room in which the helpless man had been so foully done to death
we found a small dark stain, the size of a man’s palm—the stain of
blood. It was, according to Reilly, the exact spot where the poor young
fellow lay, his life-blood having soaked through the carpet.
We looked outside the window, and there saw the great hole in the
conservatory roof through which my companion had fallen, while a piece
of broken lattice-work hung away from the wall. The autumn sunshine fell
full upon that dark stain on the floor, but the attention of the
observer would not have been attracted thereby; it was brown, like other
stains one so often sees upon deal flooring, and none would ever dream
that it was evidence of a foul and cowardly crime.
On the following day I called upon Dorothy at Cornwall Road, and almost
her first words were to convey to me a piece of news from
Rockingham—namely, that old Ben Knutton had met with a fatal accident.
While in a state of intoxication two nights before he had attempted to
cross the river by the foot-bridge that leads to Great Easton, had
missed his footing, fallen in, and been drowned. There was no suspicion
of foul play, as a young labourer named Thoms had been with him, and had
been unable to save him. The inquest had been held on the previous day
at the Sonde Arms, and a verdict of “Accidental Death” returned.
The old fellow was a sad inebriate, it was true, but in common with
Dorothy, I felt a certain amount of regret at his tragic end. Had it not
been for the presence of a witness I should certainly have suspected
foul play.
“Have you heard anything of your friends Bennett or Purvis?” I asked her
as we sat together.
“Mr. Purvis was here last night,” she answered. “He has told me how you
entrapped them in that subterranean passage.”
“Then they have escaped!” I cried. “Tell me how they managed it!”
“It appears that on leaving the Manor, and descending into the secret
way, they found that you had removed the planks that bridged the well.
They returned to the Manor only to discover that you had also closed
down the exit securely.”
“What did they do then?”
“Well, for a time there seemed no solution of the problem until Mr.
Bennett, more ingenious than the rest, suggested that they should dig a
hole straight upwards from the roof of the passage. This they did, and
in half an hour emerged in the centre of a cornfield!”
“By Jove!” I cried, laughing. “I never thought of that! Then they are
all four back in London again?”
“I think so. It seems as though they have, like you, given up all hope
of making any discovery.”
“Yes,” I said, with a sigh, “we are, unfortunately, no nearer the truth
than we were when we started.” My eye fell upon the mantelshelf, and I
noticed that in place of the portrait of the dead man there was now a
photograph of a well-known actor. She had removed it, and had probably
placed the picture among her most treasured possessions.
This thought pained me. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it,
but I feared to give her annoyance.
I openly declare that I now thought far more of my sweet and winsome
love than I did of that sordid treasure. The first-named was a living
reality, the soft-voiced woman who was my all-in-all; but the latter was
nothing more than a mere phantom, as fortune is so very often.
While my friends still discussed the ways and means of solving the
problem I thought only of her, for I loved her with all my heart and
with all my soul. How I wished she would set my troubled thoughts at
rest regarding the poor fellow who had been done to death at Kilburn,
yet when I recollected the reason of her secrecy I saw that she was held
silent for fear of consequences. Hers was a secret—but surely not a
guilty one.
Still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the
fierce fire of jealousy within me. I felt that I had a right to know who
and what he was.
We sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went
out together and dined at a restaurant. I suppose that if we had
regarded conventionalities I ought not to have visited her at her
lodgings, yet I found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose
life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea
of despair. My presence, I think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks
flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast
heaved and fell when I spoke of my affection.
She was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of
temperament, though I knew that in her inner consciousness she was
suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when
overshadowed by a crime. It was because of that I tried to take her out
of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary street in
Bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that
terrible night in Kilburn when those brutal men forced her to touch the
cold, white face of the dead.
When dining together in the big hall of the Trocadero the crowd and the
music brightened her, for evening gaiety in London is infectious, and
she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. Over dinner I told her
how for the present we had abandoned the search at Caldecott, and
related to her Usher’s remarkable story.
“And this man Bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or
water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “Why, that was as
much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate Dane! I hate the man,
Paul!” she added. “Truth to tell, I myself live in fear of him. He would
not hesitate to kill me—that I know.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly. “He dare not do that. Besides, you now
have me as your protector, Dorothy.” And I looked straight into her
great dark eyes.
“Ah! I know,” she faltered. “But—well, there are reasons why I fear he
may carry out his threat.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Has he threatened you?”
She was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
I knew the reason. It was because she was aware of the secret at
Kilburn. Perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years
before he had feared Robert Usher.
“If he attempts to harm you it will be the worse for him!” I cried
quickly. “Remember we have in Seal and Usher witnesses who could bring
him to the criminal dock. At present, however, both men are remaining
silent. The whole truth is not yet revealed. There is still another
crime of which certain persons have knowledge—a tragedy in London, not
long ago.”
Her face blanched in an instant, and next second I regretted that I had
hinted at her secret.
“What is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, not daring to look me in
the face.
But I managed to turn the conversation without replying to her question,
and resolved that in future, although anxiety might consume me, I would
refrain from further mention of the ugly affair. She would tell me
nothing—indeed, how could she, implicated as she was, even though
innocent?
Yet I hated to think that my love should be an associate of those
malefactors, and was striving to devise a plan by which she might escape
from her terrible thraldom.
After dinner I suggested the play, and we went together to see an
amusing comedy. But afterwards, as I sat beside her in the cab on our
return to Bayswater, she sighed, saying—
“Forgive me, Paul, but somehow I fear the future. I am too happy—and I
know that this perfect contentment cannot last. I am one of those doomed
from birth to disappointment and unhappiness. It has been ever so
throughout my life—it is so now.”
“No, no, dearest,” I declared, taking her little gloved hand in mine.
“You have enemies, just as I have, but if we assist each other we may
successfully checkmate them. This fight for a fortune is a desperate
one, it is true, but up to the present it has been a drawn game, while
we hold the honours—our mutual love.”
She gripped my hand in silence, but it was more expressive than any
words could have been. I knew that she placed her whole trust in me.
Yes, ours was a strange wooing—brief, passionate, and complete. But I
felt confident that, even though she might have entertained an affection
for the man so ruthlessly assassinated at Kilburn, she loved me truly
and well.
In that belief I remained perfectly content. She was mine, mine alone,
and I desired no more. For me her affection was all-sufficient. I had
searched for a hidden treasure, and found the greatest on earth—perfect
love.