Chapter Twenty Five
Most Remarkable
My former experiences had unnerved me, so I armed myself, with the crowbar, and together we went through the basement rooms, where only rats and dirt attracted our attention. Regaining the hall, Grindlay urged the necessity for making no noise, and having whispered the query “All right?” to his subordinate, receiving an assurance in the affirmative from the man on guard, we together ascended the great flight of stairs.
The place was silent as the grave, but our footsteps awoke no echoes as we gained the staircase and softly crept into the once handsome, but now faded, moth-eaten drawing-room.
Crossing the great apartment we came to the small door that Dora had opened at the moment I had been struck down. The crimson-shaded lamp, now burned out, still stood upon the table, but the door leading to the inner chamber, wherein some unknown sight had so strangely affected her, was closed and secured by a wide, strong iron bar placed right across in the manner that window shutters are barred.
“Hulloa! What’s this?” whispered the detective when he noticed it. “There’s some mystery here. Hold the lamp and lend me the jemmy.”
I handed him the tool, and inserting the pronged end between the woodwork and one of the great sockets he gave it such a sudden wrench that the socket snapped.
In an instant he had unbarred the door, and, throwing it open, dashed forward.
I followed, but a cry of amazement escaped my lips. The room into which the detective and myself effected a forced entrance was small and shabby. It had apparently once been a boudoir, but the greater part of the furniture had long ago been removed, and what remained was dusty, faded and decaying. The shutters were closed, and secured by a heavy padlocked bar, and the cheap white-shaded lamp that burned dimly upon the table did not shed sufficient light to fully illuminate the place.
Suddenly, as Grindlay took the bull’s-eye from my hand and turned its light upon the opposite side of the room, we were both amazed to discover lying upon one of those cheap convertible chair-bedsteads that are the delight of lower-class housewives, a female form in a light dress. With one accord we both advanced toward her. The woman’s face was turned from us, but our entrance apparently aroused her, and she slowly moved and raised her head.
From my lips there escaped an anguished cry of amazement.
The blanched features were familiar, but upon them was such a strange, wild look that I stopped short to assure myself that this strange scene was not merely imaginary.
“My God!” I cried. “Dora, is it you?”
Raising herself upon her elbow with a sudden movement she pushed her hair from her white brow, glared for a few moments at me with an unnatural fire in her eyes, then, without replying to my question, gave vent to a long, loud, discordant laugh.
“Speak!” I urged, rushing toward her, grasping her hand. “Tell me how it is that we discover you here, locked in this room?”
But she answered not. The light in her clear eyes grew more brilliant as she fixed her gaze inquiringly upon me. She did not recognise me. Her face was drawn and haggard, around her eyes were dark rings, and her features that had been so admired seemed now almost hideous, while the dress she wore, soiled and tumbled, was the same handsome evening gown in which I had seen her determinedly entering that room.
“Go!” she screamed suddenly. “Do not torture me, you brute! Let me die, I say! Let me kill myself!” and as she uttered the words she tore at her throat with both hands in an attempt to strangle herself.
Grindlay flew to her side and with difficulty gripped her hands. But she seemed possessed of demon strength, and even the detective, muscular and athletic as he was, found he had a hard task to hold her down.
“Do you know her?” he gasped at last, turning to me. “Who is she?”
“An old friend,” I answered, with poignant sorrow. “Her name is Dora; she is younger daughter of Lady Stretton.”
“Lady Stretton – Stretton,” the detective repeated thoughtfully. “The name is familiar. Ah! I remember. The lady who benefits so largely by the murdered man’s will is eldest daughter of her ladyship, isn’t she?”
I nodded in the affirmative, but the violent struggles of the would-be suicide interrupted our conversation, and our combined efforts were necessary in order to prevent her from accomplishing her purpose.
The melancholy fact could not be disguised that Dora, whose beauty had been so frequently commented upon by Society journals, and whose appearance in ballrooms since she “came out” had never failed to cause a sensation, was actually insane. The bright fire of madness was in her eyes as she wildly accused me of unknown crimes. She did not address me by name, but evidently in her hallucination believed me to be an enemy of whom she had just cause for the bitterest hatred. When I tried to seize her hands she shrank from me as if my contact stung her, and when I gripped her determinedly she fought and bit with a strength of which I had never believed a woman capable.
In the fierce straggle the lamp was nearly overturned, and at length Grindlay, finding that all attempts to calm her proved futile, slipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and with a murmur of apology for treating any friend of mine, and especially a lady, with such indignity, he locked them upon her slender wrists.
“It is the only way we can manage her,” he said. “We must, however, be careful of her head.”
Already she was swaying her head from side to side, uttering strings of wild, incoherent words, and after brief consultation it was arranged that the detective should call up his assistant, who had remained on guard below, and we should then convey the unfortunate girl to her home.
After two shrill blasts upon the inspector’s whistle we were quickly joined by his assistant, who, without betraying any surprise at this discovery, recognised the position of affairs at a glance, and at once held Dora’s head, in order to prevent her injuring herself.
“Remain here, and keep a sharp eye on her while we search the place,” Grindlay commanded; and taking up the lantern and jemmy we returned together to the spacious, faded room wherein the strange marriage ceremony had taken place. The boudoir had no other door leading out of it, except the one communicating with the larger apartment that we had burst open, and with its window closely shuttered, the cries of any person held captive were not likely to be heard, for the window overlooked the garden, and there were no passers-by.
From the floor whereon we had made this amazing discovery we ascended, searching diligently, even to the garrets, but found nothing noteworthy. Each room was dusty, neglected, and decaying, but they showed plainly that the mansion had once been furnished in luxurious tasteful style, and that its splendour had long ago departed.
When we had arrived at the topmost garret, Grindlay, who had moved quickly, almost silently, poking into every corner, and leaving no place uninspected large enough for any person to conceal himself, paused, and, turning to me, said:
“This affair is, I confess, a most remarkable one! In the same house, to all appearances closed and uninhabited, we find the body of the murdered man concealed, and the sister of the woman he admired insane, apparently held captive.”
“By whom?” I queried.
“Ah! We must ascertain that,” he said, flashing his lantern suddenly into a far corner, but finding nothing. “There must be some exceptionally strong motive for keeping your young lady friend away from her home. Has she, as far as you are aware, ever before shown signs of insanity?”
“Never; I have known her ever since a child, and her mind has been always normal. She was particularly intelligent, an excellent pianist, and a fair linguist.”
“Some sight unusually horrible, a paroxysm of bitter grief, or some great terror, may have temporarily unhinged her mind. Let us hope it is not incurable,” he said, sympathetically.
“Do you think she is really demented?” I asked eagerly. “Will she never recover?”
“I really can’t tell you; I’m not a mental specialist,” he answered. “It’s true that I’ve seen two similar cases among women.”
“And did they recover?”
He hesitated, then looking at me gravely he answered: “No; unfortunately they did not One woman, whose symptoms were similar, had murdered her child. The other had so severely injured her husband by throwing a lighted lamp at him that he is incurable. Both are now at Woking Asylum.”
“Is there no hope for them?”
“None. In each case I made the arrest, and the doctor afterward told me that their condition of mind was consequent upon the realisation of the enormity of their crimes.”
Dora’s symptoms were the same as those of murderesses. Such suggestion was appalling.
“Do you then suspect that Lady Stretton’s daughter, Mabel, is – has committed a crime?”
“Hardly that,” he replied, quickly. “We must, I think, seek for the guilty one in another quarter.” He seemed to speak with conviction.
“In which quarter?” I eagerly inquired.
“I have formed no definite opinion at present,” he replied quietly. “If we can induce your lady friend to speak rationally for a few minutes she may confirm or dispel my suspicions. Our discoveries this evening have made one fact plain, and they will be the cause of the withdrawal of one warrant,” he added, looking at me with a curious smile.
“For whose arrest?”
“Your own.”
“A warrant for my arrest!” I cried in dismay. “What do you mean? I have committed no offence.”
“Exactly. I have already proved that to my entire satisfaction, and that is the reason the warrant in my pocket will to-morrow be cancelled.”
“But why was it ever issued?” I demanded.
“Because certain suspicions attached themselves to you. Did it never occur to you that it was you yourself upon whom I was keeping observation on that evening we spent together at the Empire?”
“It did; but the suggestion seemed so preposterous that I cast it aside. Now, however, I see that the reason you took me to Scotland Yard was to show me two photographs in your book. One was a picture of myself, and the other that of a woman I loved – ”
“You loved her – eh?” he interrupted.
“Yes. But why do you speak in that tone?” I inquired. “You seem to suggest that my affection was misdirected.”
“Pardon me,” he said politely. “I suggest nothing – nothing beyond the fact that it was an indiscretion, as was surely proved by later events.”
“Later events!” I echoed. “Then you know the truth, Grindlay! Tell me – tell me all, if you are my friend.”
“Before we make an arrest our clues are secret,” the inspector said, not unkindly. “By divulging any of them the ends of justice may be defeated. All I can tell you at present is, that we held a warrant for the arrest of that lady whose portrait adorns our collection, and it was not executed, for the reason stated below it in red ink.”
“Because she died. Yes; I am aware of it,” I said. “I was present when she breathed her last, when the police burst into this house, and when they retired on finding the person ‘wanted’ was no longer alive. But for what offence was that warrant issued? Surely I, her husband, have a right to know?”
“I regret, Mr Ridgeway, I am unable to tell you,” he replied evasively. “You must be well aware that I was abroad at the time, and the warrant, therefore, did not pass through my hands.”
I saw in this a polite refusal to give me the information I sought, and was piqued in consequence. Soon we descended the stairs to the room where Dora remained, still uttering incoherent sentences, and after consultation the two police officers called a cab, and having placed the unfortunate girl in it we all drove to Lady Stretton’s, the inspector having first taken the precaution to send to the nearest police station for a “plain-clothes man” to mount guard over the house wherein the body of the murdered man was lying.
Our arrival at Lady Stretton’s caused the greatest consternation among the servants, her ladyship, and her two lady visitors. Lady Stretton herself fainted, the family doctor, a noted mental specialist, was quickly summoned, and Dora taken to her room. From the servants I gathered that Dora had only been absent from home for two days, and that very little anxiety had been felt on her account, for it was believed that having had some disagreement with her mother, and having announced her intention of visiting some friends in Yorkshire, she had gone thither.
It was, however, a most severe blow to all when she returned in the custody of two police officers a raving lunatic.
The doctor, who could obtain no rational reply to any of his questions, summoned another great specialist on mental ailments, who quickly pronounced the case as extremely grave, but not altogether incurable. Insanity of the character from which she was suffering frequently, he said, took a most acute form, but he was not without hope that, with careful and proper treatment, the balance of her mind might again be restored. The family were instructed not to allow, on any account, any question to be put to her regarding the manner in which the attack had commenced. The strain of endeavouring to recollect would, the doctor assured us, do her incalculable harm.
Grindlay remained with me at Lady Stretton’s for an hour or more, and when we left we drove together as far as my chambers, where I alighted, while he went on to Scotland Yard.
“Remember,” he said, before I wished him good-night, and promised to see him on the morrow, “not a word to a soul that we have discovered the body. Only by keeping our own counsel, and acting with the greatest discretion and patience, can we arrest the guilty one.”
“Grindlay, you suspect my friend, Captain Bethune,” I said. “It’s useless to deny it.”
“It is the privilege of a man in my profession to suspect, and his suspicions often fall on innocent persons,” he said, with a faint smile. “The body has now been discovered, and we know a crime has been committed. Therefore, we can obtain a warrant against any person upon whom suspicion may rest.”
I pursued the subject no further, but sat back in the cab, fully convinced by these words of his intention to arrest Jack on a charge of murder.
Chapter Twenty Six
The Fugitive
In my own room I sat for a long time silent in deep reverie. Saunders glided in and out, brought me a brandy-and-soda that went flat, untasted, and placed at my elbow my letters, with a deferential suggestion that some of them might be important. Glancing at their superscriptions, I tossed them aside, in no mood to be bothered with cards of invitation or tradesmen’s circulars.
Two hours passed, and the ever-watchful Saunders retired for the night. Then, after pacing the room for a long time in hesitation, I at last determined to write to Jack, who had returned home, warning him of his peril. I knew that by shielding a murderer from justice I accepted a great moral responsibility; nevertheless, I had formed a plan which I meant at any hazard to pursue. It was, I felt certain, my last chance of obtaining the knowledge I had so long and vainly sought, therefore I sat down, wrote a hurried note to him, in which I urged him to fly and hide himself for a time; but, after obtaining a hiding-place, to telegraph to me, using the name of a mutual friend, as I desired to see him at the earliest possible moment. This note I took across to the Club, and gave it to the commissionaire, with strict injunctions to deliver it personally.
Three-quarters of an hour later the old pensioner returned, saying that he had placed the letter in Captain Bethune’s hand, and as I strolled again homeward I pondered over the serious responsibility of my action. In my heart I felt convinced that my friend had killed Sternroyd. Indeed, every fact was plain. I knew that he was a murderer, and my previous esteem had now been transformed into a deep-rooted repugnance. If he were innocent he could never have been so suspicious of me as he had been since that memorable night when he found me in his chambers. Within myself I admitted that I had no right in his rooms; nevertheless the old adage, “Murder will out,” forcibly occurred to me. If there was one witness who could bring Captain Bethune to the gallows it was myself.
Ah, how quickly things had changed! A few brief weeks ago Jack was the popular soldier and brilliant writer hailed by the Press as one of the greatest living novelists; while Dora, charming and radiant, was courted, flattered, and admired at home, in the Park, in the ballroom – everywhere. Now the one was a murderer, hounded by the police; and the other, alas! demented.
Patience and discretion. It was Grindlay’s motto, and I would take it as mine. Already, as I walked through the silent, deserted streets, Bethune was, I knew, preparing for hurried flight somewhere out of reach. I alone had frustrated Grindlay’s plans, but only as a means to attain my own end.
Next day passed, and in the evening Saunders brought in the Inspector’s card. When Grindlay entered his first words were:
“Your friend Bethune has returned and again bolted.”
I feigned surprise, but in the course of the conversation that ensued he sought my advice on the most likely places to find him. I suggested Hounslow, but the detective had already made inquiries there, and could glean nothing.
“The curious part of the affair is that he should, after his recent extraordinary show of bravado in returning to England, suddenly become suspicious just at the moment when we meant to take him,” he said, after we had been discussing the matter. “I suppose you have no further suggestions to offer as to any likelihood of his whereabouts?”
“None. I should not expect him to try and escape abroad again after his last futile attempt to elude you.”
“No. The ports are watched, and he might as well walk into the Yard at once as to attempt to cross the Channel,” remarked the detective, smiling. “But I must be going. If you hear anything let me know at the Yard at once.”
I promised, and the inspector, taking one of my cigars, lit it and left.
A week went by, but no word of the discovery of the ghastly evidence of the crime found its way into the papers. For reasons of their own the police obtained the postponement of the inquest, although the body had been removed to the mortuary, and the house still remained in the possession of a plain-clothes’ man. The theory of the Criminal Investigation Department was that the house would be visited by someone who, unaware of the discoveries that had been made, would walk straight into the arms of an officer of the law.
But it proved a waiting game. Another week passed. Several times I called at Lady Stretton’s, only to learn, alas! that Dora had not improved in the slightest degree. She recognised no one – not even her mother. Her ladyship was prostrate, while Mabel, whom I met one morning when I called, seemed haggard and particularly anxious regarding her sister.
The thought did not escape me that Mabel herself had, at least on one occasion, most probably visited that strange house that had its entrance in Radnor Place, and I was on the point of mentioning it to her, but decided to wait and see whether she alluded to it. She, however, did not. When I asked her for news of Fyneshade she replied, snappishly, that she neither knew nor cared where he was. In fact, she treated me with a frigid reserve quite unusual to her.
About noon one day Saunders brought me a telegram. Opening it, I found the words:
“Tell Boyd to sell Tintos. – Roland. Post, Alf, Moselle.”
It was from Bethune. Roland was the name we had arranged. So he had, notwithstanding all the precautions taken by the police, succeeded in again escaping to the Continent, and was now in hiding at the post-house of the little riparian village of Alf. I knew the place. It was far in the heart of the beautiful Moselle country on the bank of the broad river that wound through its vine-clad ruin-crested hills, altogether a quaint Arcadian place, quiet, restful, and unknown to the felt-hatted horde of tourists who swarm over the sunny Rhineland like clouds of locusts.
Three days after receiving the telegram I alighted from a dusty, lumbering fly at the door of the building, half post-house, half inn, and was greeted heartily by my friend, who spoke in French and wore as a disguise the loose blue blouse so much affected by all classes of Belgians. Alone in the little dining-room he whispered briefly that he was going under the name of Roland, representing himself to be a land-owner from Chaudfontaine, near Liège. None of the people in the inn knew French; therefore, his faulty accent passed unnoticed. When there were listeners we spoke in French to preserve the deception, and I am fain to admit that his disguise and manner were alike excellent.
Together we ate our evening meal with the post-house keeper and his buxom, fair-haired wife; then, while the crimson sunset still reflected upon the broad river, we strolled out along the bank to talk.
All the land around on this south side is orchard – great pear and cherry trees linked together by low-growing vines, and in the spring months they make a sea of blossom stretching to the river’s edge. The noise of the weir is loud, but the song of the myriad birds can be heard above it. Away eastward, down the widening, curving stream, above the vines there arise, two miles off, the blackened, crumbling towers of mediaeval strongholds. To the north lies the Eifel, that mysterious volcanic district penetrated by few; to the south the Marienburg and the ever-busy Rhine. The vale of the Moselle on that brilliant evening was a serene and sylvan scene, glorious in the blaze of blood-red sunset, and when we had walked beyond the village, cigar in mouth, with affected indifference, Bethune turned to me abruptly, saying:
“Well, now, after all this infernal secrecy, what in the name of Heaven do you want with me?”
“You apparently reproach me for acting in your interests rather than in my own,” I answered brusquely.
“I acted upon your so-called warning and left England – ”
“Without seeing Dora?” I inquired.
“She’s away in the country somewhere,” he snapped. It was evident that he was entirely ignorant of the dire misfortune that had befallen her.
“My warning was justified,” I said quietly. “That a warrant is out for your arrest I am in a position to affirm, and – ”
“A warrant issued on your own information, I presume,” he interrupted with a sneer.
“I have given no information,” I replied. “I obtained the truth from the detective who held the warrant, and sent word to you immediately.”
“Extremely kind, I’m sure. You’ve done all you can to prejudice me, and now it seems that for some unaccountable reason you have altered your tactics and are looking after my interests. I place no faith in such friends.”
“My tactics, as you are pleased to term them, are at least legitimate,” I answered, annoyed. “I deny, however, that I have ever acted in opposition to your interests. During these past weeks of anxiety and suspicion I have always defended you, and show my readiness to still do so by contriving your escape thus far.”
“Bah! What have I to fear?” he exclaimed, turning on me defiantly.
I looked straight into his face, and with sternness said – “You fear arrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.” He frowned, and his eyes were downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed his tight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying —
“Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottom of my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances to again extend to you the hand of friendship.”
“I don’t want it,” he growled. “I tell you plainly that you are my enemy – not my friend.”
“I have never been your enemy. It is true that the police of Europe are searching for you; that your description is in the hands of every official charged with criminal investigation from Christiania to Gibraltar, and that the charge against you is that you murdered a young millionaire. It is true also that it lays in my power to shield or to denounce you. Think, think for a moment the nature of the evidence against you. One night I entered your flat with my key, stumbled across something, and discovered to my horror that it was the body of Sternroyd, who had been shot.”
“You lie!” he cried, turning upon me fiercely, with clenched fists. “You lie! you never saw the body!”
“I tell you I did,” I replied quite calmly, as in the same tone I went on to describe the exact position in which it lay.
My words fell upon him as a thunderbolt. He had entertained no suspicion that the body had been actually discovered before its removal, and never before dreamed that I had entered his flat on that fatal night and witnessed the evidence of the crime. By this knowledge that I held he was visibly crushed and cowed.
“Well, go on,” he said mechanically, in a hoarse tone. “I suppose you want to drive me to take my life to avoid arrest – eh?”
“Think of the nature of my evidence,” I continued. “I entered your flat again on the following night to find you present, the body removed, and you met my request to search one of the rooms by quickly locking the door and pocketing the key. I ask you whether there is not sufficient circumstantial evidence in that to convict you of the crime?”
He remained silent, his chin almost resting upon his breast.
“Again,” I said, “in addition to this, I may as well tell you that the body you sought to hide has been discovered.”
“Discovered!” he gasped. “Have they found it?”
“Yes. It was carefully hidden, but traces of murder are always difficult to hide.”
“Who searched? Who discovered it?”
“The police.”
“And they therefore obtained a warrant for me?”
I nodded. We walked slowly on, both silent and full of bitter thoughts. Now that I had convinced myself of his guilt I felt certain of the success of my next move.
Turning to him presently, I said: “I have a confession to make, Bethune. On the night of the tragedy I found that you had torn up and destroyed a number of letters before leaving, and among them I discovered one from a woman named Sybil. Now tell me frankly who and what she was. I have no wish that you should reveal to me anything regarding her relations with you that you desire to keep secret, but I merely ask you to act openly and tell me what you know of her.”
“I know nothing – nothing,” he answered, in a low tone.
“That’s a lie!” I exclaimed angrily. “She wrote to you on apparently the most intimate terms, yet you declare you are not acquainted with her.”
“Well, I was acquainted with her.”
“And with Sternroyd?”
“And with Sternroyd.”
“Then you can tell me something of her parentage, her social position, and why the police desired her arrest?”
“No; I cannot tell you that,” he answered firmly. “Why?”
“Because I refuse.”
“You know that I hold your liberty in my hand, and you fear to tell the truth because it would incense me?”
“I do not fear to tell the truth,” he retorted.
“Then why do you decline?”
“Because I respect the confidences she made to me, and in preserving silence I am but obeying the command contained in that letter.”
His reply nonplussed me. I remembered the puzzling, disjointed words I had read a hundred times before. They were: ”…desire that your friend, Stuart Ridgeway, should remain in ignorance of the fact.” Yes; he was correct. By refusing, he was obeying her injunctions.
“Will you tell me nothing regarding her?” I asked persuasively.
“I am not at liberty to say anything.”
“Remember, Bethune, I was married to her. Surely if any man has a right to know who and what she was, I have,” I urged.
“I’m well aware of your strange marriage. You were fascinated by her extraordinary beauty, as other men had been, and – ”
“Is that meant as an insinuation against her good name?” I cried fiercely.
“Take it as you please, the truth is the same,” he answered, with a sneering smile. “You fell in love with her, and were caught, like a fly in a trap.” And he laughed harshly at my discomfiture.
“Then you will tell me nothing about her?” I exclaimed angrily. “You refuse to assist me in recognition of the service I have done you in avoiding your arrest. Help me, and I will help you. If not, well – there is already within hail one into whose hands if you once fall you will never extricate yourself.”
“Death?”
“No; an officer of police.”
“Bah! I fear the former no more than the latter,” he cried, in a tone of banter. “Denounce me – let them arrest me. I am ready to face my traducers; but even in exchange for my liberty, I will tell you nothing of Sybil.”
“Very well,” I said. “Then the warrant shall be executed without delay.”
And I turned and left him.
What his blank refusal portended I had yet to learn.