THE SUSPICIONS OF LAURENCE MALLOW.
O all things odours are the most powerful to stimulate a dormant
memory; to bring back in a flash an especial scene, a peculiar face, a
particular conversation. Nothing was further from Mallow's mind than
the mysterious murder of Athelstane Place, yet the moment that whiff
of sandal-wood titillated his nostrils, he recalled at once the theory
of the newspapers and the wild suggestion of Lord Aldean.
For the moment he was so bewildered that he stood tongue-tied before
Mr. Carson. That young gentleman, on his part, appeared to be amused,
if a trifle astonished.
"You have seen me before," he asked in a pleasant voice, with a slight
and agreeable accent. "No? Is there anything strange about me then
that you----"
"I--I--I really beg your pardon," stammered Mallow, scrambling out of
his unpleasant position as best he could; "but I--that is--I fancied I
did know your face."
"You have been in India, then?"
"Yes, Mr. Carson; I was in India some months ago."
"Then it is quite possible that we met there, Mr. Mallow, although I
cannot recall having seen you. This is the first time I have visited
England. Forgive me if I am somewhat lax in the observance of your
social customs--one always shakes hands here, I believe, when
presented; you must let me then give you my left hand."
"Is your right disabled?" asked Mallow, shaking the hand this affable
young man extended.
"I am sorry to say it is, Mr. Mallow. I hurt it some months back,
shooting in India; the bones are diseased, and, since my arrival, I
have been having it attended to by one of your clever London surgeons.
I am relieved to say that he did not consider amputation to be
necessary."
Here, again, was another circumstance which immediately struck Mallow
as peculiar. The right hand of the dead man in Athelstane Place had
been cutoff; the right hand of Mr. Carson was diseased, and had
narrowly escaped amputation. This was a strange coincidence.
"I am charmed with your country, Mr. Mallow," continued Carson, who
seemed bent upon making himself agreeable. "After the arid plains of
India, these green fields are very refreshing to the eye."
"Yet I have seen marvellous verdure in the Himalayas," replied Mallow.
Carson shrugged his shoulders. "Oh yes; every land has its season of
greenness, you know, but India is undeniably dry."
"How do you do, Mr. Mallow," said a voice at the young man's elbow,
and he turned to see the lean form of Miss Slarge. "We have quite a
large gathering to-day, have we not?--Major Semberry, Dr. Drabble, and
Mr. Carson."
"Last and least," smiled that gentleman.
Mallow laughed also, seemingly out of politeness, and glanced round
the drawing-room at the people referred to by Miss Slarge. Major
Semberry, a fair, handsome, soldierly man, was paying great attention
to Miss Ostergaard, who had apparently forgotten Aldean in the ardour
of her present flirtation; and Dr. Drabble, tall and thin as a
telegraph-pole, and with about as much figure, was talking loudly with
Olive Bellairs. When Laurence withdrew his eyes, Miss Slarge, who was
quite modern at the present moment, was chatting with Carson in her
high-pitched voice.
"My sister, Mrs. Purcell, describes you as being like an Italian," she
was saying; "and I quite agree with her--don't you, Mr. Mallow?"
"Certainly, Mr. Carson has the appearance of a Tuscan."
"My mother was Eurasian," explained the young man; "I am supposed to
take after her. There is a great similarity between dark people, don't
you think so? Yes?"
"Well, putting negroes out of the question, I suppose there is, more
or less," assented Mallow. He thought Carson much more like the pure
Italian than the Englishman of mixed blood. Certainly there was no
hint of the Anglo-Saxon about him.
"So Mrs. Purcell has been giving you my character," said Carson,
smiling blandly on Miss Slarge.
"Oh dear me, yes. She wrote me quite a long account of you--all about
your looks, and conversation, and I don't know what else."
"Really? I feel flattered by the notice she has taken of me. I confess
I should very much like to see that letter."
"If you like I will read you those parts of it which refer to you,"
said Miss Slarge, amiably. "You will see then how keen an observer my
sister is. Excuse me, I will fetch the letter."
As Miss Slarge slipped out of the room on her errand, Mallow detected
a sigh from Carson--a sigh that sounded like one of relief. At the
same time he appeared--so Mallow thought--to be uneasy, and while
continuing his conversation he frequently glanced at the Major.
Semberry instinctively became aware of this, and once or twice turned
his head. Finally he left Miss Ostergaard, and came slowly across the
room, as though drawn in spite of himself to the side of his friend.
Again Mallow heard from Carson a sigh of relief, after which his
uneasiness gave place to a more confident manner, and he presented
Major Semberry to Laurence with perfect ease.
"We need no introduction," said Mallow, smiling. "Major Semberry and I
met at Simla some few months back.
"Ah, yes," replied Semberry, in his crisp, abrupt way; "Mallow the
sportsman. I remember."
"Say, rather, Mallow the scribe--in India, Major. It was my mission to
scribble out there."
"By George, yes. Read some of your letters in paper. You dropped on us
hot, Mallow--deuced hot. What are you doing in these parts?"
"Idling, Major, at the expense of Lord Aldean."
"Met him in London," said Semberry, staccato; "nice boy, make good
Army man. No brains, plenty muscle."
"Oh, Aldean has a good deal more mental power than people give him
credit for."
"Dark horse, eh?"
"Well, he may yet prove to be so. As to your no brains for the Army,'
Major, I fancy you depreciate your profession. They don't make the
fool of the family a soldier now--they certainly did not in your
case."
The Major acknowledged the compliment with a bow, but did not reply.
"Do you know, Semberry, that I am about to hear my character?" said
Carson, blandly.
"Eh, what? From our friend here?"
"No," explained Mallow; "it seems that Mrs. Purcell has written an
account of Mr. Carson to Miss Slarge, and your friend is to hear it
verbatim."
From long exposure to the sun, the natural hue of Semberry's
complexion was brick-dust, yet at this it became still more red, and
he put up a hand and tugged uneasily at his moustache. His manner
reflected the recent anxiety of Carson, and Mallow was at once on the
alert to discover the cause of their joint discomfort. There was a
hint of mystery about the swift glances they exchanged which piqued
his curiosity, and from that moment he was silently observant of their
every look and word. What he expected to learn he hardly knew, but
that there was something to be learned he felt convinced. But then
Mallow was distinctly prejudiced against Carson as his rival.
When the Major's hand came down from his moustache, he observed that
"Mrs. Purcell was a charming woman, and that she wrote an amusing
letter." He then turned to face Olive, who was approaching with Dr.
Drabble.
"It is not kind of you three gentlemen to exclude us from your
conversation," she said brightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Mrs. Purcell's letter," said Carson, with a glance of proprietorship.
"Miss Slarge has promised to read aloud the character which her sister
is so good as to give me."
"It is a better one than you deserve," replied Olive.
"Ha, ha!" roared Drabble, who was a noisy creature at best, "isn't his
character to your liking, Miss Bellairs?"
"If it is not," said Carson, before the girl had time to answer,
"Olive shall make it to her liking in two months."
Miss Ostergaard, who had joined the group, laughed. "Can an old dog
learn new tricks?" she said mischeviously.
"A young puppy might," muttered Mallow, whose hot Irish temper was
rapidly rising, both at Carson and at Olive.
He was enraged at the mere fact of the man calling the girl by her
Christian name, and he was annoyed at the complacent way in which she
seemed to listen to him and his babble. Luckily for the peace of the
moment, his remark passed unheard by all save Tui, and she nodded
approbation.
"What ridiculous things you say, Tui," said Olive, with pretended
severity.
"Extraordinary name, 'Tui,'" called out Drabble, elegantly. "What does
it mean, Miss Ostergaard?"
"It means me, in the first place, Dr. Drabble," she replied smartly;
"and in the second it is the native name for the New Zealand parson
bird."
"By George, parson bird!"
"Why rookery, Miss Ostergaard? or, to be more precise, why parson
bird?"
"Because it is all black, Mr. Mallow--a beautiful glossy black, with
two white feathers in its throat like a parson's cravat. We have
christened it the parson bird; the Maoris call it the Tui."
"It is inappropriate to you, Miss Ostergaard," said Carson, smiling.
"You never preach, I am sure."
"Oh yes, I do; but I keep my sermons for Olive."
"Ho, ho! I should like to be a member of that congregation."
"As an Anarchist, Dr. Drabble, you are not fit to be a member of any.
You don't like preaching--other people's preaching, I mean."
"That depends upon the preacher, Miss Ostergaard."
"Madame Death-in-Life, for instance."
With a snarl Drabble turned on Mallow, who had made this remark.
"What do you know of Madame Death-in-Life?" he snapped.
"Only that she is the most noted Anarchist in Europe," retorted
Mallow, coolly. "Why not? I know her, you know her, the police know
her; and a few stray kings will know her some day to their cost, if
she isn't guillotined--as she ought to be.'
"I wonder you know such a horrible woman, Mr. Mallow," said Olive.
"Oh, my acquaintance with her is not personal, Miss Bellairs."
"Neither is mine," said Drabble, who had recovered his good humour.
"I don't approve of Madame Death-in-Life's methods. It is not my
plan to terrorize the world by bombs and murders. The pen, sir, the
pen is mightier than the explosive; so is the tongue. Pamphlets and
lectures--that is my system for bringing about the much-needed social
millennium. The woman you speak of does harm to the cause; she should
be suppressed."
"Just what I said--and by the guillotine."
"No, sir!" thundered Drabble. "No legal crime, if you please."
"Anarchists prefer illegal murder," said Semberry, smiling grimly.
"And no punishment to follow," remarked Carson, arranging his sling.
"Except that of their own conscience," chimed in Olive.
"No Anarchist possesses one," said Tui; at which all present burst out
laughing at the expression on Dr. Drabble's face.
In the midst of this merriment Miss Slarge returned with the letter
and an apology.
"It took me some time to find," she explained to Carson. "Listen; this
is how my sister describes you. Perhaps it is better not to give it to
you in my sister's own words, for her style is founded upon Dr.
Johnson's, and is apt to be prolix."
"Paraphrase the description Miss Slarge," said Mallow.
"Mr. Carson," said Miss Slarge, glancing at the letter, "is
twenty-five years of age, gentle, well-bred, not without parts, and
modest."
The gentleman in question clicked his heels together in quite a
foreign fashion, and bowed low. Mallow noticed the continental air of
the whole action, and remembered it.
"He is tall, slender, elegant in shape, of a swart complexion,
inherited from his mother, and his eyes and moustache are of the
deepest black. He looks like an Italian."
"By George, Carson! Mrs. Purcell describes you exactly," said the
Major; and in his heart Mallow, who had followed the description
closely, was obliged to confess that this was true.
"He is delicate in health, and has a weak heart."
"I know that to my cost," sighed Carson, "and a swollen hand. Does
Mrs. Purcell mention that fact, yes?"
"She does, Mr. Carson, and she also says that you are effeminate."
"Ha, ha!" bellowed Drabble--"effeminate, eh?"
Carson reddened. "And why, Miss Slarge?"
"Because you wear a bracelet."
"That is true enough," assented the young man; "but I can't get it
off, and it has been on my wrist all my life--in fact, ever since it
was placed there by my ayah."
"Oh, do show us the bracelet!" cried Tui. She had a thorough woman's
love for jewellery.
"Bracelet, hum! bangle, India!" muttered the Major, and tugged his
moustache.
"Show me the bangle, Angus," said Olive, persuasively; and Mallow
winced.
Mr. Carson with great care, and evidently with some pain, took his arm
from the sling and drew up his shirt cuff. Loosely encircling his
wrist appeared a broad band of pale gold, elaborately wrought with the
hideous forms of three Hindoo gods.
As he displayed it, Miss Slarge read aloud the description of the
ornament from her sister's letter:--
"It is a broad band of ductile gold, curiously wrought with the idol
figures of the Hindoo trinity: Bramah, Siva, and Vishnu, interwoven
with the sacred lotus-flower, and other heathen symbols."
"Most extraordinary," said Mallow, looking at it; "good trade-mark,
eh, Mr. Carson? None genuine without this device."
"What do you mean, sir?" cried Carson, pulling down his sleeve with an
angry jerk.
"Mean! why, what should I mean?" replied the Irishman, and smiled
innocently.