Chapter Nineteen
The Earl’s Suspicions
“Will you – will you swear?” she implored, grasping my hands, her white agitated countenance still lifted to mine in earnest appeal.
I had felt confident long ago that she must know something of Sybil, from the fact that Sternroyd’s photograph had been placed with that of my dead wife, but was entirely unprepared for this strange offer. I was to commit perjury and thus shield this mysterious scoundrel Markwick as well as herself, in order to learn some facts about the woman I had loved. At first, so intense was my desire to obtain a clue to the inscrutable mystery that had enveloped Sybil, that I confess my impulse was to give my promise. But on reflection I saw the possibility that she desired to shield Markwick, and not herself; and I also recognised the probability that her promised revelation might, after all, be entirely untrue. These thoughts decided me.
“No,” I answered with firmness. “I will not commit perjury, even though its price be the secret of my wife’s life.”
“You will not?” she wailed. “Not for my sake?”
“No,” I answered, gravely. “Much as I desire to solve the enigma, I decline to entertain any such offer.”
“Then you, too, are my enemy!” she cried wildly, with a sudden fierceness, staggering back from me a few paces.
“I did not say so. I merely refused to be bribed to perjury,” I answered as she released my hands.
“And you will not help me?” she said, hoarsely, standing before me and twirling the ribbons of her gown between her nervous bejewelled fingers.
“I will assist you in any way I can, but I will not swear that I have not seen that man,” I replied.
“Ah! you are prejudiced,” she said with a deep sigh. Then in a meaning tone she added, “If you knew the secret that I am ready to divulge in exchange for your silence, you might perhaps have cause for prejudice.”
She uttered these words, I knew, for the sole purpose of intensifying my curiosity. It was a woman’s wile. Fortunately, however, I remained firm, and answered a trifle indifferently perhaps:
“If I can only learn the truth at such cost, then I prefer to seek a solution of the mystery from some other source.”
“Very well,” she said, her eyes suddenly flashing with suppressed anger at my blank refusal. “Very well. You refuse to render me a service, therefore I decline to impart to you knowledge that would place your enemies within your power. Speak the truth if you will, but I tell you that ere long you will regret your refusal to enter into the compact I have suggested – you will come to me humbly – yes, humbly – and beg of me to speak.”
“Of what?”
“To tell you the truth,” she said quickly, a heavy frown of displeasure crossing her pale brow. “I am fully aware of the many strange adventures that have occurred to you during the past few months; those incidents that have puzzled and mystified you, as indeed they would any person. I could, if I chose, give you an explanation that would astound you, and place in your hands a weapon whereby you might defeat the evil machinations of those who seek your ruin – nay, your death.”
“My death!” I echoed. “Who seeks my death?”
“Your friends,” she replied with a low cynical laugh, as taking up an unopened note that lay unheeded upon the table, she glanced at its superscription and eagerly concealed it in the pocket of her tea-gown.
For a moment she paused, walking slowly toward the fireplace, but suddenly turning back to me, stretched forth both hands, and with a quiver of intense emotion in her voice, made a final appeal urging me to hide from everyone all knowledge of the interview in the garden at Blatherwycke.
My mind was, however, made up. I shook my head, but no word passed my lips. I regretted deeply that I had responded to her summons.
“You are not more generous than the rest,” she cried suddenly between her set teeth. “No. You would ruin me, drive me to a suicide’s grave! But you shall not. Ha! ha! ha!” she laughed hysterically. “We are enemies now; you and I. Well, let it remain so.”
“It must be so if you desire it,” I answered briefly, and not desiring to prolong the interview, I bowed and turning upon my heel, strode from the room, closing the door behind me.
As I stepped into the hall I encountered a person so suddenly that I almost stumbled over him, yet so quickly did he motion me to silence, that my expression of surprise died from my lips. The appearance of the man under these circumstances was certainly as unexpected as it was puzzling, for it was none other than the Earl of Fyneshade. It was not surprising that he should loiter in his own house, attired in hat and coat, but it was more than passing strange that while his wife was deploring the fact that he had deserted her, and that a scandal would thereby be created, he had actually been standing at the door, and in all probability listening to a conversation which must have been intensely interesting.
This thought flashed in an instant upon me. If he had overheard his wife’s appeal would it not convince him more than ever that his suspicions were justifiable? Yet a few moments later, when he motioned me to step into an adjoining room, the door of which he closed quietly and turned to me in a manner quite friendly and affable, these fears were at once dispelled. Evidently he had heard nothing, for in explanation of his mysterious conduct he told me that he wished his wife to believe he was out of town, and that he had entered with his latch-key in order to obtain some money.
“I was afraid you would greet me aloud,” he said laughing. “Fortunately you didn’t. The fact is Mabel and I have had some little differences, and for the present our relations are rather strained. Did she ask you to call?”
“Yes,” I replied; adding, “she wanted to speak to me about Dora.”
“Ah! poor Dora!” Fyneshade exclaimed rather sadly. “Most lamentable affair that engagement of hers. She’s a charming girl, but I’m afraid the course of true love will not run very smoothly for her!”
“Why?”
“Well, Bethune is hardly the man one would wish for a husband for one’s daughter,” he answered. “There are ugly rumours afloat regarding his sudden disappearance.”
“But he has now returned to face his traducers,” I answered hastily.
“Yes, yes, I know. But does not his uneasiness strike you as – well, at least as curious?”
His words were an admission that he suspected Jack. Had Mabel, I wondered, told him of her suspicions?
“I really don’t know,” I said, with affected indifference. He smiled rather incredulously, I thought, and lowering his voice, evidently fearing that he might be overheard, he inquired —
“There is a question I want to ask you, Stuart. Are you acquainted with a man named Markwick?”
“He is not an acquaintance of mine,” I answered promptly, determined to show no sign of surprise. “I have seen him at Thackwell’s, but have only spoken to him twice.”
“Do you know who he really is?” he asked, with a strange intensity of tone that surprised me.
“I’ve known him as Markwick, but if he has another name I am utterly unaware of it. To me he has always appeared a rather shady individual whose past is veiled by obscurity.”
“And to me also. For weeks I’ve been trying to discover who the fellow really is, but no one knows. He has been living at the Victoria recently, and before that he made the Savoy his head-quarters. He appears to have plenty of money, but according to the information I have gathered, his movements are most erratic, and their object a profound mystery. He met my wife at some reception or another and called on her the other day.” Then, bending toward me he asked: “Do you think – I mean – well, would you suspect him of being a detective?”
I regarded him keenly. His question was a strange one.
“No,” I replied. “From my observations I feel perfectly confident that he is not a detective. He is more likely an adventurer.”
“Are you absolutely sure he is not connected with the police?”
“I feel certain he’s not,” I answered. “From one fact that came under my notice I have been led to the conclusion that he is an adventurer of the first water.”
“A criminal?”
“No, I don’t go quite so far as that. All I know is that he has an utter contempt for the law.”
“Then he has, to your knowledge, committed some offence?” Fyneshade cried quickly, with undisguised satisfaction.
“Not exactly. His action might, however, bring him within the pale of the law.” I had no desire to impart to this thin, dark-faced peer the wretched story of my marriage.
“What was the nature of his action?” he demanded eagerly. “Tell me.”
“Oh, it was really of no interest,” I replied quite flippantly. “I may have been mistaken after all.”
“In other words, you refuse to tell me – eh?” he observed with a sickly smile.
“I cannot explain any matter of which I have no knowledge,” I retorted, well-knowing that he was endeavouring to worm from me facts to use as weapons against his enemy, and at the same time feeling convinced that in order to discover the secret hinted at by his wife, I must act warily, and with the most careful discretion. This strange encounter with the Earl, his curious actions in his own house, and his eagerness to learn something detrimental to the mysterious Markwick, formed a bewildering problem. Nevertheless by some intuition I felt that by silence and watchfulness I should at last succeed in finding some clue to this ever-deepening mystery.
While we listened we heard the Countess emerge from the drawing-room and call to her pug as, with a rustle of silk, she mounted the stairs. Then Fyneshade’s conversation drifted into other channels. But he made no further mention of his disagreement with Mabel, and never once referred to the strange disappearance of Gilbert Sternroyd. Though I exerted all my ingenuity to lead up to both subjects, he studiously avoided them, and having waited until all seemed quiet and none of the servants were moving, we both crept out, the Earl closing the front door silently by means of his key.
In the street he glanced swiftly around in order to see if he had been observed, then suddenly gripping my hand, he wished me a hurried adieu, and walked quickly away, leaving me standing on the curb. His usual courteous manner seemed to have forsaken him, for he offered no excuse for leaving me so abruptly, nor did he apparently desire my company any longer. Therefore I turned and pursued my way engrossed in thought Truly the Earl and Countess of Fyneshade were an ill-assorted pair, and their actions utterly incomprehensible.
Chapter Twenty
An Evening’s Amusement
Saunders met me on entering my chambers with the surprising announcement that a lady had called during my absence, and had desired to see me on pressing business.
“Did she leave a card?”
“No, sir. She hadn’t a card, but she left her name. Miss Ashcombe, sir.”
“Ashcombe?” I repeated. “I don’t know anyone of that name,” and for a few moments I tried to recollect whether I had heard of her before, when it suddenly burst upon me that on a previous occasion I had been puzzled by a letter bearing the signature “Annie Ashcombe.” The note I had found in Jack’s room on the night of the tragedy and which requested Bethune to meet “her ladyship” at Feltham, had been written by someone named Ashcombe!
“What kind of lady was she, Saunders?” I inquired eagerly. “Ancient?”
“About thirty-five, I think, sir. She was very excited, dark, plainly dressed in black, and wore spectacles. She seemed very disappointed when I said you had only just returned from Wadenhoe, and had gone out again. She wanted to write a note, so I asked her in and she wrote one, but afterward tore it up and told me to mention that she had called to see you on a matter of the most vital importance, and regretted you were not in.”
“Did she promise to call again?”
“She said she was compelled to leave London immediately, but would try and see you on her return. When I asked if she could make an appointment for to-morrow, she replied, ‘I may be absent only three days, or I may be three months.’”
“Then she gave no intimation whatever of the nature of her business?”
“Not the slightest, sir. I think she’s Irish, for she spoke with a slight accent.”
“You say she tore up her note. Where are the pieces?” He went to the waste-paper basket, turned over its contents, and produced a handful of fragments of a sheet of my own notepaper. These I spread upon the table, and when he had left the room I eagerly set to work placing them together. But the paper had been torn into tiny pieces and it was only after long and tedious effort that I was enabled to read the words, hastily written in pencil, which as far as I could gather, were to the following effect: —
“Dear Sir. – The matter about which I have called to see you is one of the highest importance both to yourself and one of your friends. It is not policy, I think, to commit it to paper; therefore, as I am compelled to leave London at once I must, unfortunately, postpone my interview with you.
“Yours truly, —
“Annie Ashcombe.”
I unlocked the little cabinet and taking therefrom the strangely-worded letter I had found in Jack’s room I compared minutely the handwriting and found peculiarities identical. The “Annie Ashcombe” who had called to see me was also the writer of the message from the unknown lady who had taken the precaution of journeying to Feltham in order to secure a private interview with Jack Bethune. Annoyed that I had been absent, and feeling that I had been actually within an ace of obtaining a most important clue, I cast the fragments into the grate with a sigh and replaced the letter in the cabinet. The situation was most tantalising; the mystery inexplicable. From her I might have learnt the identity of Jack’s lady friend, and she could have very possibly thrown some light upon the causes that had led to the tragedy, for somehow I could not help strongly suspecting that “her ladyship” referred to in the note was none other than Mabel. But my visitor had gone, and I should now be compelled to await her return during that vague period which included any time from three days to three months.
A fatality seemed always to encompass me, for my efforts in search of truth were constantly overshadowed by the jade Misfortune. I was baffled at every turn. To discover the identity of “her ladyship” was, I had long recognised, a most important fact in clearing or convicting Jack, but, at least for the present, I could hope for no further explanation.
Having dressed, I went to the Club, dined with several men I knew, and afterward descended to one of the smoking-rooms, where I accidentally picked up an evening paper. The first heading that confronted me was in bold capitals the words, “Sternroyd Mystery: Supposed Clue. The Missing Man’s Will.”
Breathless with eagerness I devoured the lines of faint print. They seemed to dance before my excited vision as I learnt from them that a reporter who was investigating the strange affair, had ascertained that a clue had been obtained by the detectives.
“The mystery,” continued the journal, “is likely to develop into one of the most sensational in the annals of modern crime. We use the word crime because from information our representative has obtained, it is absolutely certain that the young millionaire Sternroyd met with foul play. How, or where, cannot yet be ascertained. At Scotland Yard, however, they are in possession of reliable information that Mr Sternroyd had for some time actually anticipated assassination, and had confided this fact to a person who has now come forward and is actively assisting the police. Another extraordinary feature in the case is, that although Mr Sternroyd has a mother and a number of relatives living, he made a will, only a few weeks before his disappearance, bequeathing the whole of his enormous fortune to a lady well-known in London society. The police are most actively engaged in solving the mystery, and now that it has been ascertained that the missing man anticipated his end at the hand of another, it is confidently believed that in the course of a few hours the police will arrest a person suspected.”
The secret was out! Mabel had evidently placed her theory before the police and explained what Gilbert had told her regarding his fears. She was Jack’s enemy, and had placed the detectives on the scent. This, then, was the reason she had endeavoured to silence me regarding her interview with Markwick at Blatherwycke. When she had striven to induce me to swear secrecy, she had without doubt already informed the police of her suspicions, and well knew that ere long I should be called as a witness to speak as to Bethune’s movements. Our friendship had been broken. Fortunately I had promised nothing, and was free to speak.
The pink news-sheet I cast from me, congratulating myself that I had not fallen into the trap the Countess had so cunningly baited.
Even at that moment some men opposite me were discussing the mysterious affair, and as I smoked, my ears were on the alert to catch every syllable of their conversation. It was only now that I fully realised what widespread sensation Sternroyd’s disappearance had caused. Having been absent in the country, I was quite unaware of the intense public interest now centred in the whereabouts or fate of the young millionaire whose little peccadilloes and extravagances had from time to time afforded food for gossip and material for paragraphists in society journals.
“There is a woman in the case,” one of the men was saying between vigorous pulls at his cigar. “I knew Gilbert well. He wasn’t a fellow to disappear and bury himself in the country or abroad. Whatever he did, he did openly, and no better-hearted young chap ever breathed. He was awfully good to his relations. Why, dozens of them actually lived on his generosity.”
“I quite agree,” said another. “But I heard something in the Bachelors’ last night that seems to put quite a different complexion on the affair.”
“What is it?” inquired half-a-dozen eager voices in chorus.
“Well, it is now rumoured that he admired the Countess of Fyneshade, and that he was seen with her on several occasions just prior to his disappearance. Further, that the will about which to-night’s papers give mysterious hints, is actually in her favour. He’s left everything to her.”
The other men gave vent to exclamations of surprise, but this piece of gossip was immediately seized upon as a text for many theories of the weird and wonderful order, and when I rose and left, the group were still as far off solving the mystery to their own satisfaction as they had been half an hour before.
Wandering aimlessly along to Piccadilly Circus, I turned into the Criterion expecting to find a man I knew, but he was not there, and as I started to leave, I suddenly confronted a tall, well-dressed man who had been lounging beside me at the bar, and who now uttered my name and greeted me with a breezy “Good-evening, Mr Ridgeway.”
Unnerved by the constant strain of excitement, this suddenness with which we met caused me to start, but in an instant I told myself that I might learn something advantageous from this man, therefore called for more refreshment, and we began to chat.
The man’s name was Grindlay. He was a detective who owed his position of inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department mainly to my father’s recommendation. About six years previous a great fraud, involving a loss of something like thirty thousand pounds, was perpetrated upon my father’s bank by means of forged notes, and Grindlay, at that time a plain-clothes constable of the City Police, stationed at Old Jewry, succeeded, after his superiors had failed, in tracing the manufacturer of the notes to Hamburg and causing his arrest, extradition, and conviction. The ingenuity of the forger was only equalled by the cunning displayed by the detective, and in consequence of a question my father addressed to the Home Secretary in the House, Grindlay was transferred to Scotland Yard and soon promoted to an inspectorship. Therefore it was scarcely surprising that he should always show goodwill toward my family, and on each occasion we met, he always appeared unusually gentlemanly for one of his calling, and full of genuine bonhomie.
Immediately after the strange adventures of that memorable night on which I had been married to a lifeless bride, I had sought his counsel, but had been informed that he was absent in South America. It was now with satisfaction that I again met him, although I hesitated to speak to him upon the subject. Truth to tell I felt I had been ingeniously tricked, and that now after the lapse of months, even this astute officer could not assist me. No, as I stood beside him while he told me briefly how he had had “a smart run through the States, then down to Rio and home” after a fugitive, I resolved that my secret should still remain my own.
“Yes,” I said at length. “I heard you were away.”
“Ah! they told me at the Yard that you had called. Did you want to see me particularly?” he asked, fixing his dark-brown eyes on mine. He was a handsome fellow of middle age, with clear-cut features, a carefully twisted moustache and upon his cheeks that glow of health that seems peculiar to investigators of crime. In his well-made evening clothes and crush hat, he would have passed well for an army officer.
“No,” I answered lightly: “I happened to be near you one day and thought I would give you a call. What are you doing to-night?”
“Keeping observation upon a man who is going to the Empire,” he answered, glancing hurriedly at his watch. “Come with me?”
For several reasons I accepted his invitation. First because I wanted some distraction, and secondly because it had occurred to me that I might ascertain from him something fresh regarding the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.
We lit fresh cigars, and, strolling to the Empire Theatre, entered the lounge at that hour not yet crowded. As we walked up and down, his sharp, eager eyes darting everywhere in search of the man whose movements he was watching, I inquired the nature of the case upon which he was engaged.
“Robbery and attempted murder,” he answered under his breath so that passers-by should not hear. “You remember the robbery of diamonds in Hatton Garden a year ago, when a diamond merchant was gagged and nearly killed, while the thief got clear away with every stone in the safe. Well, it’s that case. I traced the stones back to Amsterdam, but failed to find the thief until three weeks ago.”
“And he’ll be here to-night?”
“Yes, I expect him. But don’t let’s talk of it,” he said under his breath. “Somebody may spot me. If you chance to meet any of your friends here, and am compelled to introduce me, remember I am Captain Hayden, of the East Surrey Regiment.”
“Very well,” I answered smiling, for this was not our first evening together, and I had already been initiated into some of the wiles of members of the Criminal Investigation Department.
For fully an hour we lounged at the bars, watched the variety performance, and strolled about, but my friend failed to discover his man. While standing at one of the bars, however, several men I knew passed and repassed, among them being the Earl of Fyneshade accompanied by Markwick and another man whom I had never before seen. The latter, well-dressed, was apparently a gentleman.
“Do you know that tall man?” I asked Grindlay as they went by, and we happened to be looking in their direction.
“No,” he answered. “Who is he?”
“The Earl of Fyneshade.”
“Fyneshade? Fyneshade?” he repeated. “Husband of the Countess, I suppose. She’s reckoned very beautiful, isn’t she? Do you know them?”
“Yes,” I replied. “They are friends of my family.”
“Oh,” he said, indifferently. “Who are the other men?”
I told my companion that the name of one was Markwick, and our conversation then quickly drifted to other topics. Presently, however, when the Earl repassed along the lounge, he said —
“Have you met his lordship recently? He doesn’t appear to have noticed you.”
“I saw both the Earl and the Countess this afternoon,” I said. “I called at Eaton Square.”
Almost before the words had left my lips, Fyneshade and his friends entered the bar, the trio speaking loudly in jovial tones, and in a moment he recognised me. Markwick and I exchanged glances, but neither of us acknowledged the other. It was strange, to say the least, that he of all men should be spending the evening with Mabel’s husband.
“Hulloa, Ridgeway!” cried the Earl, coming forward. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where did you dine?”
“At the club,” I answered, and turning, introduced Grindlay as Captain Hayden.
“Good show here, isn’t it,” Fyneshade exclaimed enthusiastically to the detective. “Juniori is excellent to-night. Her last song, ‘Trois Rue du Pan,’ is immense. It’s the best thing she has ever sung, don’t you think so?” Grindlay agreed, criticised the vivacious dark-eyed chanteuse with the air of a blasé man-about-town, and chatted with his new acquaintance with well-bred ease and confidence. In a few minutes, however, Fyneshade returned to rejoin his friends at the other end of the small bar, while Grindlay and myself strolled out again on our watchful vigil.
At last, after a diligent search, my friend suddenly gripped my arm, whispering —
“See that man with the rose in his coat. You would hardly suspect him of a diamond robbery, would you?”
“No, by Jove!” I said. “I never should.” As we passed I looked toward him and saw he was aged about fifty, with hair slightly tinged with grey; he wore evening clothes, with a fine pearl and emerald solitaire in his shirt, and upon his hands were lavender gloves. In earnest conversation with him was a short, stout, elderly man, with grey scraggy beard and moustache, about whose personality there was something striking, yet indefinable.
“Oh!” exclaimed Grindlay, when we were out of hearing. “I had not suspected this!”
“Suspected what?” I asked, eagerly; for tracking criminals was to me a new experience.
“I did not know that our friend there was acquainted with the little man. I’ve seen his face somewhere before, and if I’m not very much mistaken, we hold a warrant for him with the offer of a reward from the Belgian Government.” Then placing his cigar in his mouth and puffing thoughtfully at it for a moment, he added, “Let’s saunter back. I must get another look at him.”
We turned, strolling slowly along, and as we passed, Grindlay left me and went close to him to take a match from the little marble table near which the pair was standing. Leisurely he lit his cigar, then returning to me, said briefly:
“I’m not yet certain, but I could almost swear he’s the man. If he is, then I’ve fallen on him quite unexpectedly, and shall arrest him before he leaves this place. But I must first run down to the Yard and refresh my memory. Come with me?”
I assented, and we went out, driving to the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department in a hansom. Through the great entrance hall, up two wide stone staircases and down a long echoing corridor, he conducted me until we entered a large room wherein were seated several clerks. He had thrown away his cigar, his keen face now wore a strange pre-occupied look, and as he approached a shelf, took down a large ledger, and opened it before him, he glanced up at the clock remarking as if to himself —
“I’ve got an hour. They are certain to remain until the end.”
His eye ran rapidly down several columns of names, until one arrested his attention and he closed the index-book, replaced it, and left me for a few moments, observing with a laugh – “I won’t keep you long, but here – there’s something to amuse you.”
Taking from one of the unoccupied desks a large, heavily-bound volume, he placed it before me, adding – “The people in there are mostly foreigners wanted for crimes abroad, and believed to be living in free England.” And he went out, leaving me to inspect this remarkable collection of photographs. Each portrait, mounted in the great album, bore a number written in red ink across it, and I soon found myself highly interested in them. Presently Grindlay returned hurriedly with a similar album, the leaves of which he turned over one by one, carefully scrutinising each picture on the page in his eager search for the counterfeit presentment of the man who, unsuspicious of detection, was calmly enjoying the ballet at the Empire.
“Anything there to interest you?” he inquired presently without looking up, as we stood side by side.
“Yes,” I answered, “Are these all foreigners?”
“Mostly. They are wanted for all kinds of crime, from fraud to murder,” he replied.
They were indeed a most incongruous set. Many were photographs taken by the French and German and Italian police after the criminal’s previous conviction, and the suspects were often in prison dress; but the portraits of others were in cabinet size, bearing the names of well-known Paris, Berlin, and Viennese photographers.
“Have any of these people been arrested?” I inquired.
“No. When they are, we take out the picture and file it. If there is any reason why they should not be arrested it is written below.”
And he went on with his careful but rapid search while carelessly I turned over leaf after leaf. A few of the men appeared quite refined and gentlemanly. Some of the women were quiet and inoffensive-looking, and one or two of them stylishly dressed and exceedingly pretty, but it could be distinguished that the majority bore the stamp of crime on their brutal, debased faces.
I had glanced at a number of leaves mechanically, and had grown tired of inspecting the motley crowd of evildoers, when suddenly an involuntary cry of abject amazement escaped my lips.
My eyes had fallen upon two portraits placed side by side among a number of others whose physiognomy clearly betrayed the fact that they were malefactors. Stupefied by the discovery I stood aghast, staring at them, scarcely believing my own eyes.
The two portraits were those of Sybil and myself!
Sybil’s picture was similar to the one I had purchased in Regent Street, and was by the same photographer, while mine had evidently been copied from one that had been taken in Paris two years before.