SOME DISCOVERIES IN SCARBOROUGH
We had breakfast next morning in that big room of the Grand Hotel at
Scarborough that overlooks the bay.
Though I was myself an early riser, Whitlock had been up and out a long
time before me. Most probably he had been to have a chat with the Chief
Constable of the town, in order to learn something of the tenants of
Kazan House. But when he returned he made no remark save--
"Tired last night--eh, Keene? I've been for a stroll along the
Esplanade. Quite nice this morning," and he looked out upon the
sunlit sea, the green Castle Hill, and the much-talked-of Marine
Drive. Scarborough, without any exaggeration, can be called the Queen
of English watering-places. Once, in the days when our fathers were
courting, it was the mode to go to Scarborough and parade on its
"Spaw," but, alas! nowadays, when there are so many other attractive
places, and when Cook's take the curious "abroad" cheaper than they can
live at home, even beautiful Scarborough, like so many of our lovely
coast towns, is far too much neglected by the wealthiest of English
holiday-makers.
Breakfast finished, I walked up Huntriss Row with my companion, who
wanted to send telegrams. One of them was, I noticed, in cipher, and
addressed to Scotland Yard. Then we returned, crossed the Spa Bridge,
and ascended to the South Cliff, the select and aristocratic part of
the town, whence splendid views are afforded of the old town, harbour,
and the ruined stronghold upon the grass-grown promontory.
The morning was delightful, with bright sun and little wind, and
as we passed along the sea-front, with long terraces of big,
substantially-built houses, our eyes were eagerly in search of Kazan
House. Its discovery did not entail very much difficulty, but we were
both much disappointed to note upon the door a small board in black and
gold, bearing the word "Apartments."
It was a boarding-house, as were nearly all the others in the same
terrace. Its position was a delightful one, for right before it,
sloping between the Esplanade and the sea, lay the beautiful Belvedere
Gardens, with their pineries and roseries, which every visitor knows as
one of the finest shore-gardens in all the kingdom, private property,
and therefore closed to the public, save in the rose season, when
their benevolent owner threw them open in aid of various charities.
On such occasions thousands upon thousands availed themselves of the
opportunity of wandering in those cleverly-devised walks, and admiring
the glorious views of sea and cliff that show through the canopies of
foliage, in the direction of Filey.
"It's a boarding-house, as I expected," remarked Whitlock,
disappointedly, as we strolled past. "Mr Frederick Stonor may have been
only a visitor to this place, after all. At any rate, let's see," and
he suddenly turned back again, entered the gate, went up the short walk
of the tiny strip of front garden and touched the electric bell.
A maid with dark, fluffy hair appeared, whereupon my friend inquired if
there were any rooms to let.
"If you step in, sir," replied the girl, with a Yorkshire accent, "I'll
call my mistress."
So we entered the small hall and waited until there appeared a
middle-aged, rather pleasant-faced woman, who wore a severe black stuff
gown, and whose dark hair, parted in the centre, was brushed down flat.
We repeated our inquiry, and were shown up to the first floor, where
we found a large, airy sitting-room and two well-furnished bedrooms.
Whitlock, acting as spokesman, expressed himself as perfectly satisfied
with both the accommodation and the terms demanded, while the landlady,
growing chatty, as landladies usually do when they exhibit their best
demeanour towards fresh arrivals, told us that her name was Pennington,
and that she was a widow.
Whitlock did not press any inquiries, but said that we would take the
rooms, and that our traps were on their way from London and would
arrive on the morrow. We would return to the Grand, pay our bill, and
come back there in an hour's time.
And so we became tenants of furnished rooms in Kazan House, South
Cliff, Scarborough.
"We shall have to remain here at least one day, if not two," my friend
remarked, as we walked back in the direction of the town.
"Then, if I must stay, I'll be compelled to wire to the office," I said.
"Better wire now. I have an idea that we shall learn something here,"
he answered. "I was half inclined to make inquiries of the man Stonor;
but, after all, it's better to let the questions come naturally,
otherwise Mrs Pennington may not be communicative."
At noon, therefore, we were installed in our new abode, and standing
together at the sitting-room window we obtained a wide view of the
charming garden of the Belvedere. Two young ladies in white dresses
were wandering in the rosery, plucking bunches of flowers, while the
owner, a well-preserved, elderly gentleman, was giving directions
to his gardeners. Beyond the gardens lay the sunlit sea, blue and
unruffled.
Luncheon was served very shortly afterwards, and following it
reappeared Mrs Pennington to express, in her fussy manner, a hope that
we were satisfied.
This gave Whitlock his opportunity. He began by hinting that if we were
comfortable we should probably spend the winter with her--knowing well
what winter lodgers mean to the keepers of seaside boarding-houses. By
such remarks as these he ingratiated himself with her, and then began
to remark about the beauties of the private garden opposite.
"Yes," she replied. "They belong to the landlord of this house. He's
a most courtly and charming gentleman, and allows his tenants to go
in and walk about on Sundays. I hear, however, that some people have
abused the privilege and have actually carried away great bunches of
his roses."
"Such privileges are always abused," I remarked.
"You're quite right, sir," declared Mrs Pennington. "It's a shame, and
it makes it bad for others."
"The two young ladies I saw just now are his daughters, I suppose?"
"No, sir. His granddaughters. Both very charming girls. They have a
German lady as companion. Has she been out there this morning? She's
generally out very early, getting flowers for the table--often before
I'm up."
"I shall see her presently, I expect," was my reply.
Then she fell to gossiping about her neighbours and referring to the
kindheartedness and generosity of the gentleman to whom the terrace
belonged, and who lived in the big stone house at the end, whence a
subterranean passage running beneath the Esplanade gave communication
with the extensive cliff gardens.
At last Whitlock seized his opportunity and remarked in a casual way--
"I met a little time ago a man named Stonor, who lived somewhere along
here. He told me what a charming view could be obtained from the
Esplanade."
"Stonor, sir!" Mrs Pennington echoed. "Was it Frederick Stonor?"
"Yes. His name was Frederick--a rather stout, middle-aged man."
"Well, funnily enough, sir, he's my brother."
"Your brother!" exclaimed Whitlock, as we both pricked up our ears.
"Yes, sir. He's been away in York for a week, but he returns to-morrow.
So you know him. Only fancy! He will be pleased to find you are our
guests."
"Then he rents this house in conjunction with you?" my companion asked.
"Yes, sir."
"He didn't tell me whether he was married or not."
"No, he isn't. In fact," she laughed, "he is a most confirmed bachelor."
"It was about last September, I think, when I met him in London."
"Yes. He went to town last September--so he did."
"There was a young lady with him--if I remember aright."
"A young lady?" replied Stonor's sister, with some surprise. "That's
news to me. He went up to see about realising some property which my
father left to us three years ago. Are you not mistaken? Fred said
nothing to me about any young lady."
"No; I remember quite distinctly. On the second occasion we met--in
Piccadilly one afternoon--he had a very pretty young lady with him."
"Then I must ask him when he returns to-morrow," she laughed,
good-humouredly. "He has few secrets from me."
"He's been with you here a long time, I suppose?" Whitlock remarked,
cleverly changing the topic of conversation.
"Ever since my husband died, five years ago. But," she added, rather
thoughtfully, "what you've just told me regarding him being about with
a young lady rather worries me."
"Perhaps he's thinking of marrying at last," I laughed.
"I should hope he won't be such a fool!" she declared.
"Well, Mrs Pennington, of course, all I have said you will regard as
confidential," Whitlock said. "Had I not believed that you were aware
of the young lady's existence I should never have mentioned her. As it
is, I think it would be better if you said nothing when he returns. He
would only be annoyed with me."
"Of course, sir, if you wish it, I will say nothing," she replied. "But
when he returns perhaps you can find out for me who the lady was. I'm
very anxious, you know; for if he marries he will most certainly leave
here, and I should then lose his help and support, which means very
much to me. You can well understand my anxiety."
"I do. Say nothing about the matter, Mrs Pennington, and leave all to
me."
When she had closed the door and descended the stairs, my friend turned
to me and said hastily--
"I've made an infernal blunder--one that can't be recalled. I'm a fool!"
"Why?"
"Because I said that Stonor knew me. We can't meet him now, or our game
will be given away. We must leave early to-morrow morning, but before
we go we'll try and learn, if possible, something more. Now that we've
promised to help her to fathom her brother's secret she'll tell us all
she knows."
"Yes," I said, admitting his remarkable tact and cunning. "You've acted
splendidly."
"I got through all right--except that short-sighted statement that I
can't now wriggle out of. The moment her brother returns she'll tell
him that a friend of his is upstairs. He'll come up, and, finding a
perfect stranger, will at once become suspicious. No, Keene; we shall
have to leave suddenly early to-morrow morning. There's a train to York
a little after nine."
"But before that we ought to have another chat with Mrs Pennington," I
suggested. "It's very evident that she don't want her brother to marry."
"We'll go out for a stroll, and try and have a chat with her after
tea," he decided.
So, taking our hats, we went out, wandering along the cliffs to Cayton
Bay, meeting hardly a soul. Then, on our return, about half-past five,
we had tea and sat at the open window, lazily smoking and discussing
the curious events of the past few days.
About half-past six we told the fluffy-haired maid to ask Mrs
Pennington to kindly step up, and when she entered Whitlock pretended
to give her orders regarding what we preferred for breakfast.
She at once began to gossip about all kinds of topics, until with
subtle cleverness my companion turned the conversation again to her
brother.
"No. He's not often up in London," she said. "But he frequently goes
away for two or three days at a time, and he never tells me where he's
been to. In fact, this last couple of years he has been very erratic in
his movements. He has a good many friends in various parts of Yorkshire
and Lincolnshire, and often goes to visit them. But he's always very
close regarding his movements--so much so that I've often wondered
whether there wasn't some attraction somewhere of which he was keeping
me in ignorance."
"Ah! I see," Whitlock laughed. "Then his habit was to go away to
unknown destinations?"
"Yes. Once he told me he'd been in Darlington, staying with his cousin
for three days, but I afterwards found out that he hadn't been there at
all. When I told him he became very much annoyed, and told me in future
to mind my own business."
Whitlock shot a meaning glance in my direction.
"And I suppose you didn't make any further remarks?"
"No. But I've been pondering a good deal of late."
"Well, Mrs Pennington," Whitlock said, "I wonder whether, in these
circumstances, you can keep a secret? Remember, I am his friend, and I
don't wish anything repeated to him."
"I certainly won't repeat anything," the woman assured him. "I'd very
much like to know who the lady was with whom you say he was walking
about London."
"Then this is her photograph," Whitlock said, producing it suddenly
from his breast-pocket. "Do you recognise her?"
Mrs Pennington's countenance went deathly pale as her eager eyes fell
upon the picture we had discovered in Woburn Square. I saw that she
held her breath, utterly dumbfounded.
That she recognised the portrait was in an instant evident.
But next moment she had recovered herself.
"It's a lie!" she cried, glaring at my friend. "He was never with her!
Impossible!"