IN ST. JOHN'S WOOD.
Lord Hetton was certainly a long-suffering man. It has been stated that
the temper of the mistress of Azalea Lodge was almost diabolical; there
was nothing the pair didn't quarrel over. I believe, originally, their
quarrels were about nothing at all, the mere disagreements of lovers
that are but a renewal of love; the best-tempered and most virtuous have
been known to fight even during their honey-moons: but it is a
dangerous practice, for use is second nature, and quarrelling, like
dram-drinking, grows upon one, and after a while becomes a necessity. I
verily believe had the inhabitants of Azalea Lodge not both been members
of the cultured classes that murder would have been done. But just as
they quarrelled, abused each other, and hurt each other's feelings as
much as possible, so they were each in the habit after a pitched battle
of leaving the field in possession of the victor.
On the very day that Mr. Parsons had left Matilda Street to proceed on
business to the Swiss Cottage, one of these numerous pitched battles had
taken place; the lady had been vanquished, and she, her maid, and her
jewel-case had left for Brighton by the evening train. Lord Hetton sat
alone and tried to do justice to a _recherché_ little dinner, but he
failed, for Hetton was jealous and unhappy; and as he looked at the
vacant chair opposite him, the triumphs of his undeniable cook turned to
Dead Sea apples in his mouth, for, in his mind's eye, he saw the
mistress of Azalea Lodge dining in solitary grandeur in the coffee-room
of a fashionable Brighton hotel, the cynosure of many an admiring eye.
Lord Hetton did not enjoy his dinner.
These two unfortunate people, if the truth be told, really did love each
other very sincerely. As has been said the lady was Lord Hetton's only
friend; of this she had given him very tangible proof in the hour of his
need, and on her part she owed everything she had in the world to his
lordship; but each of the pair was haunted by a special terror--the lady
by the fear that Lord Hetton might marry, his lordship by the dread that
the lady might actually carry out her frequent threat that the next time
she left him it would be never to return. Poor wretch, he would only
have been too glad to have married her, but that outraged society would
have been instantly vindicated by the stoppage of his allowance from the
old earl.
Lord Hetton sat and meditated by his study fire. "By Jove!" thought he,
"it would serve her right if I really did pay her off and married. I
ought to, if it were only to keep out that fellow Haggard and his
brats."
It was ten o'clock. Azalea Lodge was a well-regulated household. The
parlourmaid placed the spirit stand upon the table, and asked his
lordship if he had any further orders. Within half-an-hour the four
women servants of Azalea Lodge were fast asleep, and the thick
baize-covered door, which separated the servants' quarters from the rest
of the house, was securely fastened. And now Lord Hetton sat down to his
writing-table, and he wrote a letter to the solicitor of the mistress of
Azalea Lodge. This was the letter, which was short and to the point:
"Azalea Lodge.
"SIR,
"I shall be glad if you will call upon me here, as I am desirous
of washing my hands of your client and of all the associations
of this place.
"Yours faithfully,
"HETTON."
Now Lord Hetton when he wrote this letter had not the slightest idea of
carrying out the threat contained in it; it was merely his way of
expressing his displeasure--the quickest means he knew of causing the
return of the fugitive from the seaside. It was upon the lines of this
letter that he composed a second epistle full of indignant
recrimination, in which he announced that this, the last rupture, must
be final. "I have long determined," he said, and he chuckled as he wrote
the words, "to shake myself free from what was after all but a boyish
infatuation at the commencement, an entanglement which I feel we both
have been anxious to terminate for some time. Your solicitor will inform
you that I have requested him to take the necessary steps." And as he
folded the letter and placed it in its envelope he smiled. "She'll get
it by the mid-day delivery to-morrow, if they post it the first thing in
the morning, and she'll probably come back in a towering passion by the
four express. I wish she was here now," he continued with a sigh. Lord
Hetton yawned, he looked at his watch, and then he stamped the letters
and laid them out for posting, but circumstances intervened which caused
those two letters not to leave Azalea Lodge.
Lord Hetton lighted his candle and went to bed. In half-an-hour he was
sound asleep, and a dead silence reigned in Azalea Lodge. The crickets
chirped merrily upon the hearth of the housemaid's pantry, where the
remains of a fire still smouldered. But what is that monotonous grating
sound which continues with mechanical regularity? It isn't a kettle
boiling, though it sounds rather like it, for there is an occasional
squeak and then the noise suddenly ceases altogether, only to recommence
again.
Mr. Parsons on reaching the Swiss Cottage had walked straight to Azalea
Lodge. He entered the front garden of the empty house next door to it,
which was still in the hands of the workmen. He flung his three-pronged
hook over the high wall which separated Azalea Lodge from the empty
house. Quickly, noiselessly, and without effort Mr. Parsons reached the
top of the wall; then he removed the three-pronged hook, fixed it on the
near side of the wall, and descended by means of the friendly rope
attached to it into the grounds of Azalea Lodge. He left the rope
hanging, for the return journey might possibly have to be accomplished
in a very hurried manner. When Mr. Parsons stood safely within the outer
defences of the fortress which he had assailed he proceeded to
deliberately remove his boots. The big list slippers which he put on
were perfectly noiseless; they are the professional foot coverings
common to the British thief and to the ghost of Hamlet's father. Then he
walked straight to the pantry window, and shading his eyes with his
hands, carefully took stock of the interior. Mr. Parsons lost no time;
and, skilled mechanic that he was, commenced his work at once. Gripping
his file firmly in both hands, and carefully lubricating its keen edge
with oil, he commenced operations vigorously upon the massive bar of
soft iron, which with five others protected the pantry window; the bar
was at least an inch in diameter and was quite seven feet long. It took
Mr. Parsons a good twenty minutes' hard work to cut through, and beads
of perspiration stood upon the brow of that clever operator long before
the job was finished. Mr. Parsons replaced his files in their special
receptacles in his many-pocketed coat, then he seized the
massive-looking bar just above where he had divided it, he placed a foot
against the window-ledge and tugged with all his might. It's easy enough
to bend a poker between the bars of a kitchen range; it is true that the
kitchen poker is not an inch in diameter, but then neither is it seven
feet long. Mr. Parsons wrenched away with a will, and soon the great bar
was bent almost to a right angle. Mr. Parsons slipped a small palette
knife between the sashes, but Azalea Lodge had been fitted up regardless
of expense, and the window-catch was a patent one which resisted the
efforts of Mr. Parsons; but that gentleman was equal to the occasion; he
took out a piece of diachylon plaister, apparently from the small of his
back, really from one of the numerous receptacles of his professional
coat; he carefully affixed and smoothed the plaister over the top centre
pane of the lower sash, and then he rapidly drew a glazier's diamond
round the pane. Spreading his left hand out upon the middle of the
plaister he struck a smart blow upon his fingers with his right fist; he
had smashed the window, but without noise--there was no crash or rattle
of falling glass. With deliberate care Mr. Parsons effected an opening
in the broken window, in a workmanlike manner, large enough to admit his
right hand, and then with a smile he gently opened Sharp's Patent Safety
window-catch. Mr. Parsons now raised the window-sash with ease, and,
taking his boots in his hand, effected his felonious entry, leaping
lightly and noiselessly into the room. Mr. Parsons placed his boots in
the fender to warm, for nothing is more unpleasant to a careful man than
the putting on of cold boots. And now Mr. Parsons proceeded to carefully
and deliberately wash his hands and to remove from them the grimy traces
of his honest labour; then he lighted a short piece of candle--the match
he used gave forth no warning sound. He examined the lock, the key was
in the door, the projecting end of it he seized with a pair of
peculiarly-made forceps, the key turned noiselessly and with ease. Mr.
Parsons ascended the kitchen stairs and proceeded straight to the
dining-room, for he was no vulgar thief to whom the contents of the
larder of Azalea Lodge would present attractions, but an industrious
tradesman and a keen man of business.
Mr. Parsons was occupied for at least half-an-hour in the dining-room,
for in the massive oak sideboard he found a good deal of portable
property; the patent locks soon yielded to his skilful attack, and the
spoons and forks were rapidly packed by him into the smallest possible
compass and placed in a bag of suitable size. But Mr. Parsons looked in
vain for any sign of the racing plate which had attracted his attention
upon his first visit to Azalea Lodge. He placed the bag containing the
plunder upon the hall table, and then, his lighted end of candle in his
hand, he ascended the stairs. When he reached the first floor he heard
the regular breathing of the sleeping Lord Hetton; he carefully removed
his lordship's boots from the mat and gently tried the door, blowing out
his candle as he did so, for the landing was illuminated by a flicker
of gas, and had his lordship awakened, the light would have betrayed the
intruder. The burglar entered the room without noise, and the heavy
breathing of the sleeper continued without intermission. Mr. Parsons
looked around him; his eyes at once alighted on the object of his
search; in a corner of the room stood a large safe of painted iron of
the most recent construction--Chubbs' Patent Safety. Mr. Parsons was
quite aware of what Chubbs' Patent Safety meant; he knew full well that
a Chubbs' safe would successfully withstand his attempts for a period of
twenty-four hours at least, and that picking the lock would be quite a
hopeless matter. But Mr. Parsons did not despond; he knew that owners of
safes generally keep the key upon their persons. He looked towards the
sleeper; upon a small table at the bedside lay his heavy gold Frodsham
chronograph, to the massive chain of which was attached a long slender
steel key. The burglar possessed himself of the watch and appendages,
knelt down in front of the safe, which yielded to the key, and in a few
moments the Toiler of the Night was busy with Lord Hetton's racing
trophies. There they lay, the glittering, precious baubles, the prizes
for which their owner had schemed ever since his early manhood, the
useless cups, vases, &c., which had cost their fortunate proprietor far
more than their weight in purest gold. The feelings of Mr. Parsons may
be better imagined than described; they must have somewhat resembled
those of Ali Baba when the treasures of the Forty Thieves first met his
astonished eye. Is it to be wondered at then that Mr. Parsons lost his
head for the moment, and that though his eyes were busily employed he
forgot to use his ears; he forgot to note that Lord Hetton's breathing,
which was a heavy snore when he entered the room, was now inaudible.
His lordship, who had been sleeping heavily, had not exactly awakened,
though had he been addressed at the moment he would probably have
answered coherently enough; the fact was that he had been sound asleep
and dreaming a pleasant dream, and in a state of semi-consciousness he
was trying to recall the delightful vision, but it was gone for ever,
and he appealed to his memory in vain. Lying perfectly still on his
back, his lordship half-opened his eyes, and they rested upon the top of
Mr. Parsons' head, which exactly intervened between them and an object
they were accustomed habitually to rest upon, namely, the bright gilded
handle of the Chubbs' safe. But the sleepy eyes closed again, and
reopening half mechanically sought the missing handle. Lord Hetton now
opened his eyes widely enough, and almost thoroughly awake stared,
without moving his head, in search of the accustomed object. He saw the
top of the safe, but he failed to discern the gay lines of green paint
and gilding which decorated the door; then it slowly dawned upon Lord
Hetton's mind that he was no longer dreaming, or even dozing, but that
he was almost wide awake, and that the door of his iron safe was open.
And then his lordship became seriously alarmed. Not that he was by any
means a coward, but it is alarming to awaken from one's tranquil
slumbers and to feel that one may have to fight for one's life and
property against possible unknown odds, and without one's clothes. A man
may feel very brave indeed with his boots on, but take away his clothes
and it considerably reduces his courage. As Lord Hetton became gradually
thoroughly wide awake, he grew alive to the fact, not only that the safe
door was open, but that (what the Divorce Court calls) "a person
unknown" was tampering with its contents. Now perhaps the most prudent
thing that Lord Hetton could have done would have been to have gone to
sleep again, but it never for one moment occurred to his mind to allow
himself to be robbed with impunity. Thoroughly awake at last, Lord
Hetton could with difficulty contain his rage, and it was only by a
powerful exertion of his own will that he did restrain himself from
rushing from his bed and attacking the intruder with his naked fists.
But, he reflected, the thief or thieves were probably armed; he
remembered too that there was no assistance to be obtained in the house
itself, and that there was no means of arousing the neighbourhood. And
then Lord Hetton's mind, which was a cool one, came to a determination.
Very slowly indeed, and perfectly silently, Lord Hetton gradually
stretched out his arm from the bed towards the little table upon which
his watch had lain; but it was not upon the top of the table that his
extended fingers attempted to grasp the object which they sought, but on
a ledge several inches beneath. On that ledge lay a loaded six-chamber
revolver. His lordship's fingers gradually closed upon the butt of the
weapon, gradually and noiselessly he raised it, and with his thumb he
proceeded to cock it.
There was an ominous click.
His lordship sprang from the bed, pistol in hand.
The man Parsons started to his feet with equal celerity, and the two men
stood glaring at each other.
There was an appreciable instance of silence, and each of the
adversaries could hear the loud beating of his own heart.
"You infernal villain, if you don't surrender, I'll blow your brains
out," hissed his lordship.
The burglar made no reply, but placed his right hand in his bosom, and
in an instant his keen cruel sheath knife was raised high above his
head, and without a word, like an infuriated tiger, he rushed upon the
sporting nobleman.
Lord Hetton pulled the trigger, there was a sharp click, that was all.
His lordship swore a bitter oath, as it flashed through his mind that in
his excitement of rage and indignation he had forgotten to withdraw the
safety catch.
There was no time to do it now, for the burglar was upon him. Hetton
struck the man furiously in the face with the butt of the pistol, but
the thief succeeded in avoiding the full force of the blow, and used his
knife with murderous dexterity. The pistol dropped from his lordship's
failing hand, each man had the other by the throat, and the thief
continued to mercilessly hack and stab, for he knew that he was fighting
for liberty, and even life. Gradually he forced his victim down upon the
floor, he placed his knee upon his chest, and tightened his cruel grip
upon the throat of the fallen man. They still glared at each other and
struggled on in horrid silence, but gradually the convulsive clutch of
Lord Hetton's fingers relaxed, the glare of rage and hate disappeared
from his eyes, and its place was taken by a dull leaden stare. For Lord
Hetton was dead.
But not for several minutes did the burglar relax his grip of the dead
man's throat; and then it dawned upon him that he was a murderer, that
in a few short hours justice would be upon his track; and he shuddered
with mingled horror and remorse as he mechanically wiped the blade of
his knife between his fingers, ere he returned it to its sheath.
The man Parsons had been cool and collected enough before, but now he
trembled, and he hurried out upon the landing with anxiety, to listen if
there was any movement in the house. The struggle had been fierce, but
there had been no noise. The murderer was considerably reassured, as he
marked the dead silence that reigned in the place, and then he turned
again towards the door of the fatal bedroom. He hesitated to enter it,
for the wretch, though full of brute courage, feared to look again upon
the face of the victim he had done to death. But there was nothing else
for it; he entered the room in fear and trepidation, he gathered up his
plunder with a shaking hand, and carefully secured it in a Gladstone bag
which lay in the dressing-room; on it were the initials of the master of
Azalea Lodge. Last of all he thrust the watch and chain of the murdered
man into his pocket; then he looked upon the ground and saw with horror
the marks of his own guilty foot-prints in hideous red blurs upon the
gay carpet. He removed his tell-tale felt slippers, and the bag in one
hand, the slippers in the other, and holding the end of the bit of
candle which he had re-lighted high above his head, he regained the
hall. He carefully placed the little parcel which he had left upon the
hall table in the bag, and stuffing a sheep's skin mat and the
blood-stained slippers in as well, he succeeded in deadening the
jangling noise made by the plate. He snatched down an Inverness cape
which hung in the hall and flung it over his arm, and on tiptoe he
gained the housemaid's pantry in safety; he put on his boots and washed
his blood-stained hands. Then he strode down the garden of Azalea Lodge,
carrying in his hand the rope and three-pronged hook by which he had
entered the premises. He scaled several walls with cat-like celerity,
and then secreted himself among the shrubs of the front garden of a
house in a main road of St. John's Wood. From this hiding-place he saw
with satisfaction the infrequent policeman pass on his nocturnal round;
then he put on the Inverness cape, which gave him a rather distinguished
appearance, and walked boldly forth, carrying his Gladstone bag. He
hailed the first hansom he met and drove to Charing Cross; there he took
another cab to Matilda Street. He dismissed the man at the corner, and
reached his lair.
Here the man Parsons disappears from our story. Early dawn saw him on
board the Antwerp boat, and he reached the Continent in safety. No doubt
he had his reward, in this world or the next.
And so Lord Hetton died, unlamented save by his lonely old father at
Walls End Castle and by the woman who firmly believed that the very last
determination of his life had been to cast her off as a worn-out garment
and to "wash his hands" of her for ever. Save to these two persons, and
to those who had had the misfortune to back Lord Hetton's nomination for
the coming Derby, his death made no difference to anybody. We have
forgotten Reginald Haggard; he, lucky fellow, of course benefited, for
it brought him one step nearer to the Pit Town title.
It was after all but a vulgar tragedy, though it made considerable noise
at the time.
When, in the early morning, the housemaid at Azalea Lodge found her
pantry door unlocked, she was alarmed; and when she saw that the window
was open and that one of the protecting iron bars had been wrenched
aside, she very nearly fainted. In her tribulation she hurried to her
fellow servants and informed them of her startling discovery. The four
women were terribly frightened, and it was only after a considerable
amount of persuasion that the cook consented to put on her bonnet and go
in search of the police. While she was absent the three other women
fortified themselves in the kitchen and awaited her return in fear and
trembling. Constable Bulger, 130 D, was soon upon the scene; he examined
the pantry window from the outside, he looked very wisely indeed at the
foot-prints in the soft gravel path, and directed that they should
remain undisturbed; and then he entered the house and proceeded to
interrogate the servants.
"Anything missing, ladies?" he said.
No, nothing was missing in the basement, and the policeman and the
frightened maids ascended to the hall, where the parlourmaid instantly
detected the absence of the Inverness cape.
"There's more gone than that, miss," said Constable Bulger. "They don't
effect a forcible entry now-a-days for the sake of a coat or two; we'd
better look in the dining-room."
The parlourmaid flung open the shutters and drew up the blinds, letting
in the bright sunshine. As the girl turned from the window she gave a
succession of eldritch screams and went off into violent hysterics; for
she saw that the doors of the massive sideboard were standing wide open
and that the empty plate-basket lay upon the floor. Constable Bulger was
perfectly satisfied in his own mind that the parlourmaid, at all events,
had had nothing to do with the burglary which had evidently been
committed. For portly 130 D prided himself, and perhaps with some
justice, on his intimate knowledge of the ways of women. He knew
perfectly well that the dreadful laugh was not simulated, and he was
quite aware of the appropriate remedies.
"Let her lie flat on the floor, ma'am," he said to the cook, "and just
you run for a little water, miss, and be spry," was his command to the
frightened housemaid, who, pale as ashes, was standing in the doorway.
"Is his lordship at home?" said Bulger. "I'd better see him at once.
Just run up and say I am here," added he.
But not one of the women stirred; all three redoubled their assiduities
to the recovering parlourmaid, but each firmly declined to quit the
dining-room, on the ground that "it wasn't a woman's place."
"Just keep your eye on the roadway, one of you," said the constable,
"the sergeant'll be passing directly, and if you see him you'd better
call to him."
And then Constable Bulger undid the button of his truncheon case, not
that he expected to find any one on the premises, but it was as well to
be prepared for the worst, and he then ascended the stairs. One of the
bedroom doors was wide open, and a horrid sight met his astonished eyes.
On the floor lay the murdered master of Azalea Lodge. The face looked
like a waxen mask; the lips were bloodless and of an ashen grey,
slightly parted, leaving the regular teeth of the dead man painfully
apparent. The eyes were wide open and had a terror-stricken look; but
the hands were clenched. The dead man lay in a pool of blood, with which
his white nightdress was stained in many places.
The constable drew his truncheon, looked under the bed and into the
dressing-room; a glance at the open safe told him that it had been
rifled. Then, without in the slightest degree disturbing the dead man
or his surroundings, the constable left the room, locking the door and
placing the key in his pocket. He made a perfunctory search through the
rest of the house, though he knew full well that the murderer had fled;
and as he descended the stairs and rejoined the frightened women, his
sergeant, whom the cook had hailed from the dining-room window, appeared
upon the scene.
In a whisper Bulger communicated to him what had taken place; but while
he was yet speaking shrieks and cries were heard from the dining-room.
Both men hurriedly entered it. The parlourmaid, mad with terror, was
struggling with the other women.
"They have murdered him," she shrieked. "Oh God! they have murdered
him," she reiterated, as she pointed to a great pink stain upon the
ceiling.
There was no need to break to them the dreadful news now. The girl
continued to shriek and point at the awful stain for some minutes, and
then went off in a dead faint.
All that morning a little crowd stopped to whisper and point at Azalea
Lodge. In vain a special policeman entreated them to move on; they
merely passed over to the other side to point and whisper in mingled
excitement and curiosity. The red-coated newsvendors did a thriving
trade in the neighbourhood on that day.
"Special edition. Frightful murder of a nobleman by burglars. Flight of
the murderers. Further horrible details." The red-coated men's harvest
was a precarious one, and they made the most of it; they even succeeded
in selling some of their papers at a shilling a-piece. But the
purchasers were disappointed, for though the newspaper reporters had
swelled their description of what they called "The Tragedy in High Life
in St. John's Wood," into two columns of leaded type, yet nothing more
was to be gained from it all than that the heir to the Pit Town title
had been brutally murdered by a midnight thief, that the assassin had
escaped with his plunder, and as yet had succeeded in baffling the
efforts of the police.
Ere nightfall every police station in the metropolis displayed a
hand-bill headed by the startling word "MURDER," in big black letters,
and offering a reward for the apprehension of a man wearing an Inverness
cape and carrying a Gladstone bag. For days the police stations were
besieged by anxious informers, desirous to give information about men
with Gladstone bags and Inverness capes. Both cabmen came forward, and
the murderer was traced as far as Matilda Street, but here the scent
failed utterly; and though the old lord offered a further and larger
reward, and smug-looking men, in slop clothes and billycock hats, hung
about Matilda Street at all hours of the day and night, yet they failed
to come upon any trace of Lord Hetton's murderer.
Twelve good men and true, his lordship's butcher, baker and candlestick
maker and nine others of the same kidney, found a verdict of "Wilful
Murder;" and two days after the inquest the body of the unhappy nobleman
was conveyed to Walls End Castle and interred with due pomp in the
family vault. The old lord, Mr. Haggard of the Home Office and Reginald
Haggard, followed it to the grave.
Mr. Haggard had had a rather painful interview with a lady dressed in
deep mourning in the dining-room of Azalea Lodge, on the morning of the
removal of his lordship's body. The lady's grief was evidently
unfeigned. When Mr. Haggard had informed her that the dead man had left
her all he had to give, she was in no way consoled, and merely continued
to sob and wring her hands in the bitterness of her grief.
A fortnight afterwards Azalea Lodge was in the hands of an auctioneer.
The first-rate modern furniture, by Gillow, was eagerly inspected by the
curious, and fetched fancy prices. Six months afterwards Lord Hetton's
very existence was forgotten, save by his father and a lady dressed in
deep mourning, who gambled with feverish energy at Monte Carlo, vainly
striving, poor thing, in that way to drown the remembrance of the past.
The wicked man's epitaph, as a rule, may be generally appropriately
written in the pithy words "He was, and is not." Like a stone dropped
into the water he disappears and leaves no trace.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Most of the apparent printers' errors have been retained. A few have
been changed, including the one listed below.
Line 3920 in Chapter X where a comma was inserted in the phrase 'he
would secure the competence he had yearned for, for so many years'.