Chapter Eleven
Touching the Widow’s Mite
One
The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had – attended by the faithful Garrett, of course – been executing some remarkably quick performances on the Brooklands track.
About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car, and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of record-breaking. Some of his times for “the mile” had been very creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals. Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the “Hut,” on the Ripley Road.
Among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance.
Though he never exceeded the speed limit – in sight of the police – yet his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most ear-piercing of any on the road. A little bit of business up in Staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson, and Mr Max Mason, had placed them all in funds, and while the worthy Bayswater vicar was taking his ease at the “Majestic” up at Harrogate – where, by the way, he had become extremely popular among his fellow guests – Mason was at the Bath at Bournemouth for a change of air.
To the guests at Harrogate the Rev. Thomas Clayton had told the usual tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug his living – that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work, small stipend, ailing wife and several small children. Indeed, he admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month’s holiday.
Thus he had become indispensable to the tea-and-tattle circle, and the ladies soon began to refer to him as “that dear Mr Clayton.” With one of them, a certain wealthy widow named Edmondson, he had become a particular favourite, a fact which he had communicated in a letter to the good-looking motorist now living at the pretty wayside inn in front of the lake on the Ripley Road.
While the Parson was enjoying a most decorous time with the philanthropic widow, Dick Drummond, as he soon became known, had cultivated popularity in the motor-world. To men in some walks of life, and especially to those on the crooked by-paths, popularity is a very dangerous thing. Indeed, as the Prince had on many occasions pointed out in confidence to me, his popularity greatly troubled him, making it daily more difficult for him to conceal his identity.
At that moment, because he had lowered a record at Brooklands, he was living in daily terror of being photographed, and having his picture published in one or other of the illustrated papers. If this did occur, then was it not more than likely that somebody would identify Dick Drummond the motorist, with the handsome Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein?
He led a life of ease and comfort in all else, save this constant dread of recognition, and was seriously contemplating a sudden trip across the Channel with a run through France and Germany when he one morning received a registered letter bearing the Harrogate postmark.
He read it through half a dozen times. Then he burned it.
Afterwards he lit a “Petroff” and went out for a stroll in the sunshine along the road towards Ripley village.
“It’s really wonderful how clerical clothes and a drawling voice attract a woman. They become fascinated, just as they do when they meet a Prince. By Jove!” he laughed merrily to himself. “What fools some women – and men, too, for the matter of that – make of themselves! They never trouble to institute inquiry, but accept you just at your own value. Take myself as an instance! In all these four years nobody has ever discovered that I’m not Prince Albert. Nobody has taken the trouble to trace the real prince to his safe abode, the Sanatorium of Wismar. Yet the great difficulty is that I cannot always remain a prince.”
Then he strode along for some time in thoughtful silence. In his well-cut blue serge suit and peaked motor-cap he presented the smart devil-may-care figure of a man who would attract most women. Indeed, he was essentially a ladies’ man, but he always managed to turn his amorous adventures to monetary advantage.
Only once in his life had he been honestly in love. The tragic story of his romance in Florence I have already explained in a previous chapter. His thoughts were always of his real princess – ever of her. She had been his ideal, and would always remain so. He had defended her good name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a criminal. Better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth; better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips and tender hands.
As he walked, a young man passed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way to Brooklands, and waved to him. It was George Hartwell, the holder of the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his.
The Prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the Parson’s suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up in Yorkshire.
“I wonder whether the game’s worth the candle?” he went on, speaking to himself after the cloud of dust has passed. “If what Clayton says is true, then it’s a good thing. The old woman is evidently gone on him. I suppose he’s told her the tale, and she believes he’s a most sanctified person.”
He halted at a gate near the entrance to Ripley village, and lighting another cigarette puffed vigorously at it.
“My hat!” he ejaculated at last. “A real parson must have an exceedingly soft time of it – snug library, pretty girls in the choir, tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing. In the country no home is complete without its tame curate.” Then, after a long silence, he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared:
“Yes, I’ll go. There’ll be a bit of fun – if nothing else.”
And he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his bosom friend and ingenious accomplice. It was a word of their secret code – Formice – which Clayton would interpret as “All right. Shall be with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in your letter.”
Then he walked back to the “Hut,” where he found Garrett sitting out in that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded by motorists on warm Sunday afternoons.
“Better go and pack,” he said sinking into a chair as his supposed servant rose and stood at attention. “We’re going back to town in an hour.”
Garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel. He saw by the Prince’s sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind.
An hour later Dick Drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road towards Esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he ceased to exist. Prince Albert became himself again.
Direct to Dover Street they went – and there found the discreet Charles awaiting them. Fresh kit was packed while Garrett, in a garage over in Westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow.
That evening the Prince spent alone in his pretty sitting-room consuming dozens of his pet Russian cigarettes, and thinking hard. For an hour he was busy upon some accounts written in German – accounts from a Jew dealer in precious stones in Amsterdam. The gentleman in question was a good customer of the Prince’s, gave fair prices, and asked no questions. His Highness seemed troubled about one item, for as he rested his brow upon his hand, still seated at his desk, he murmured in a low voice to himself:
“I’m sure the old Hebrew has done me out of four hundred and fifty! Eighteen hundred was the price agreed for that carroty-headed woman’s pendant. That’s what comes of leaving business matters to Max.” And sighing, he added: “I shall really have to attend to the sales myself, for no doubt we’re swindled every time. The old Jew doesn’t believe in honour among thieves, it seems!”
Some letters which had arrived during his absence were put before him by the valet, Charles. Among them were several invitations to the houses of people struggling to get into society – by the back door, and who wanted to include the name of Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein in the list of their guests.
“Are we likely to be away for long?” asked the valet, at the same time helping himself to a cigarette from his master’s silver box.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” laughed the good-looking young adventurer. “You’ll go down to the ‘Majestic’ at Harrogate by the first train in the morning and take the best suite for me. Garrett and I will arrive in the car. Of course you’ll tell the usual story to the servants of my wealth, and all that.”
“The Parson’s down there, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but you’ll take no notice of him. Understand?”
So the smart young crook who posed as valet, having received his master’s instructions, retired to pack his own clothes.
At ten next morning Garrett brought round the hundred “racer,” now covered in yellow enamel and bearing a different identification-plate from that it had borne the previous day, and with the Prince up beside him wearing a light dust-coat and his peaked cap turned the wrong way, so as not to catch the wind, drew out into Piccadilly, and turned up Shaftesbury Avenue due northward.
Throughout that warm summer’s day they tore along the Great North Road as far as Doncaster, wary always of the police-traps which abound there. Then, after a light meal, they pushed on to Ferrybridge, taking the right-hand road through Micklefield to the cross-roads beyond Aberford, and then on the well-kept old Roman way which runs through Wetherby to Plampton Corner, and ascends the hill into Harrogate.
The last forty miles they did at tearing speed, the great powerful engine running like a clock, leaving a perfect wall of white dust behind. The car was a “flyer” in every sense of the word. The Prince had won the Heath Stakes at Brooklands, therefore, on an open road, without traffic or police-traps, they covered the last forty miles within the hour.
The sun had already sunk, and the crimson afterglow had spread before they reached the Stray, but as the car drew up before the great hotel, Charles, bareheaded and urbane, came forth to receive his master, while behind him stood the assistant manager and a couple of attendants also in bareheaded servitude.
Charles, who always acted as advance-agent had already created great excitement in the hotel by the announcement that his Highness was on his way. Quite a small crowd of visitors had concluded their dinner early, and assembled in the hall to catch first sight of the German princeling who preferred residence in England to that in his native principality.
As he passed across the great hall and entered the lift, dusty after his journey, his quick eyes caught sight of the sedate modest-looking parson seated away from the others, chatting with a rather buxom, florid-looking, red-necked woman of about fifty.
The Parson had his face purposely averted. At present he did not wish to claim acquaintance with the new-comer, whom he allowed to ascend to the fine suite of rooms reserved for him.
Next morning, as the Prince crossed the hall to go out for a stroll about the town he created quite a flutter in the hotel, especially among the female guests. The place was filled by summer holiday-makers from London, each of whom was eager to rub elbows with a real live Prince. Indeed many were the flattering words whispered by pretty lips regarding his Highness’s good looks and general bearing.
The worthy Bayswater vicar was chatting with Mrs Edmondson in his usual clerical drawl, when the Prince’s sudden appearance caused him to look up. Then turning to her again, he exclaimed:
“Oh, here’s Prince Albert! I knew him quite well when I was British chaplain in Hanover,” and crossing to his Highness he shook hands heartily, adding in the next breath: “I wonder if your Highness would allow me to present to you my friend here, Mrs Edmondson?”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” replied the younger man bowing before the rather stout, dark-haired lady, whose blatant pomposity crumpled up instantly, and who became red and white in turns.
The introduction had been effected so suddenly that the relict of Thomas Edmondson, Esquire, J.P., D.L., of Milnthorpe Hall, near Whitby, had been taken completely off her feet – or “off her perch,” as the merry cleric afterwards jocosely put it. She knew Mr Clayton to be a most superior person, but had no idea of his intimate acquaintance with princes of the blood-royal.
She succeeded in stammering some conventional expressions of pleasure at being presented, and then lapsed into ignominious silence.
“Mrs Edmondson has kindly expressed herself very interested in my poor parish,” explained the Parson, “just as your Highness has been interested. I wrote to you a month ago to Aix-les-Bains, thanking you for your generous donation towards our Children’s Holiday Fund. It was really extremely kind of you.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, Mr Clayton,” replied his Highness. “I’ve been in your parish twice, remember, and I know well how very hard you work, and what a number of the deserving poor you have. I’m just going down in the town for a stroll. Perhaps I’ll see you after lunch? Come to my room for a smoke.”
And then, bowing to the obese widow, he replaced his grey felt hat and strode out.
“What a very charming man!” declared the widow when she recovered herself sufficiently to speak. “So he has been to your parish!”
“Oh, yes. He gives me most liberal donations,” answered Clayton in a low tone of confidence. “But he always prefers to remain anonymous, of course. He has been my best friend for years. I had no idea he was in England. He wrote me last from Aix.”
But the widow’s brain was already active. Though possessing a deep religious feeling, and subscribing liberally to all sorts of charities just as her late husband had done, she was nevertheless a snob, and was already wondering whether, with the assistance of the pleasant-faced cleric, she could not induce the Prince to be her guest at Milnthorpe. She knew that his presence there would give to her house a cachet which had always been lacking, and would raise her social position in the select county of Yorks a hundred per cent.
“Most delightful man!” she repeated as they went forth into the grounds. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of a long chat with him.”
“Oh, that won’t be very difficult, my dear Mrs Edmondson,” her companion replied. “Any one introduced by me will, I feel assured, be received most cordially by him. He does me the honour of reposing the most implicit trust in myself.”
“A trust which certainly is not misplaced,” declared the stout widow in her self-satisfied way, as she strutted along in a new grey cotton gown of latest mode, a large hat to match, a big golden chatelaine at her side, and a blue silk sunshade.
“You are very flattering,” replied Clayton. “I – I fear I do not deserve such kind words, I only do my duty to my bishop and my parish, and prosecute the line of life which Providence has laid out for me.”
“There are clergymen – and clergymen,” the woman said with affected wisdom. “I have known more than one who has been utterly worthless. It is, therefore, very gratifying to meet a man with such a high mind, and such a keen sense of responsibility towards his poor backsliding fellow creatures as yourself.”
He was silent, for he was biting his nether lip. What would this estimable widow think if she knew the truth that he had no parish, no wife, no little children, and that he had no right to the sombre garb of religion in which he stood before her?
A moment later he succeeded in changing the subject.
The Prince lunched alone in his private room, as he always did in hotels in order to impress both management and guests. It was another habit of his, in order to cause servants to talk, to have a big bottle of eau de Cologne placed in his bath each morning. The chatter of servants as to his generosity, and his careless extravagance, was often most useful to him. While the Parson was always parsimonious – which, by the way, was rather belied by his rubicund complexion – the Prince was ever open-handed.
The good-looking, well-dressed young man’s slight foreign accent entirely disappeared whenever he became Tremlett or Lord Nassington, or Drummond, or any other imaginary person whose identity he from time to time assumed. At present, however, he spoke with just sufficient error of grammar and speech to betray his foreign birth, and as he rose, and stood looking out of the window he presented, in his cool, grey flannels, the ideal young foreign prince of English tastes and English education.
Already in the reading-room below, the “Almanach de Gotha” had been handled a dozen times by inquisitive half-pay colonels, and mothers with marriageable daughters. And what had been found printed there had caused a flutter in many hearts.
The Prince’s audacity was superb. The suspicion of any little coup he made as prince he always managed to wriggle out of. Even though some evil-disposed persons had made ugly allegations against him at times, yet they were not believed. He was a prince and wealthy, therefore what motive had he to descend to the level of a thief? The Parson, too, always managed to evade suspicion. His voice, his manner, and his general get-up were perfect.
Those who had visited his house in Bayswater, not far from Queen’s Road station, had found it to be the ideal and complete clergyman’s home, with study and half-written sermons on the writing-table.
Their victims, indeed, were as puzzled as were the police. The Prince’s magnificent impertinence and amazing boldness carried him through it all. He was a fatalist. If he and his friends Clayton, Garrett, and Mason were ever caught – well it would be just Fate. Till they actually fell into the hands of the police they would have a good time, and act fearlessly.
As he stood at the window, with the eternal Russian cigarette between his lips, gazing thoughtfully out upon the garden below, the door opened and the Parson entered.
“Well, Tommy, old chap!” exclaimed his Highness, when in a few moments the two men were lounging in easy-chairs opposite each other. “Now, tell me all about the old girl,” he said laughing. “She walks like a pea-hen.”
“There’s not much more to tell than what you already know,” responded the Parson, “except that she’s all in a flutter at meeting you, and wants to chat with you again.”
“Have you made any inquiries concerning her?”
“Of course. A week ago I ran over in secret to Milnthorpe Hall. Fine place, big park, large staff of servants, butler an Italian. Husband was partner in a firm of shipbuilders at Barrow, and left nearly a million to his wife. One son recently passed into the Army, and just now stationed in Cawnpore. Rather rackety, his mother says. The old woman dotes on parsons.”
“And quite gone on you – eh?” Clayton laughed.
“She gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my Children’s Holiday Fund last week,” he said. “She’s promised to come down and go round my parish one day, soon.” His Highness smiled knowingly.
“Is her place far from Whitby?” he inquired, between whiffs of his cigarette.
“About four miles, on the high road just past a place called Swarthoe Cross. Grosmount station, on the Pickering line is nearest.”
“The old girl, as far as I’ve been able to observe, is a purse-proud old crow,” his Highness remarked.
“Rather. Likes her name to figure in subscription lists. The old man built and endowed some almshouses in Whitby, and offered twenty thousand to his Party for a knighthood, but was refused. It’s a sore point, for she badly wanted to be Lady Edmondson.”
“How long since the dear one departed?”
“Two years.”
“And she’s looking for a second, I suppose?”
“That’s my belief.”
“I wonder if she’d be attracted by the title of princess?” he laughed.
“Why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman’s breath away,” declared the Reverend Thomas.
“Well, if she’s so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from benefiting a bit? We sadly need it, Tommy,” the Prince declared. “I had a letter from Max the day before yesterday. He wants fifty wired without fail to the Poste Restante at Copenhagen. He’s lying low there, just now.”
“And one of the best places in Europe,” the Parson exclaimed. “It’s most snug at the ‘Angleterre,’ or at the ‘Bristol.’ I put in six months there once. Stockholm is another good spot. I was all one summer at that little hotel out at Salsjobaden, and had quite a good time. I passed as an American and nobody recognised me, though my description had been circulated all over Europe. The Swedish and Danish police are a muddle-headed lot – fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to lie undisturbed. Have you sent Max the money?”
“I wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven days,” responded his Highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his half-consumed one. He always smoked in the Russian style, flinging away the end when only half finished.
Of the proceeds of the various coups made, his Highness took one-third, with one-third to Clayton, who was a schemer almost as ingenious as the Prince himself, and the remaining third was divided between Max Mason, Charles, and Garrett, the chauffeur.
The pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans. Then his Highness rang for Garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at five o’clock.
The Parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later by his Highness. The latter found his friend lounging picturesquely with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the gratification of the “pompous old crow,” as Prince Albert had designated her half an hour before.
As they finished the tea and muffins, the big yellow racing-car drew slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss motors and motoring.
“I have a car at home – a sixty-Mercédès – and I’m awfully fond of a run in it,” she told the Prince. “One gets about so quickly, and sees so much of the country. My poor husband hated them, so I never rode in one until after his death.”
“The car I have with me is a racer, as you see,” remarked his Highness. “It’s a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the Brooklands track just before I bought her. If you were not of the feminine sex, Mrs Edmondson, I’d invite you to go for a run with me,” he laughed. “It’s rather unsociable, for it’s only a two-seater, with Garrett on the step.”
“I’d love to go for a run,” she declared. “It – well it really wouldn’t be too great a breach of the convenances for a woman to go out on a racing-car, would it?”
“I don’t think so, Mrs Edmondson,” remarked the Reverend Thomas, in his most cultivated clerical drawl. “But I would wrap up well, for the Prince travels very fast on a clear road.”
So “the old crow” decided to accept his Highness’s invitation, and ascended to put on her brown motor-cap and veil and a thick coat against the chill, evening winds.
Two
A quarter of an hour later, with Garrett – in his grey and red livery – seated on the step, and the widow up beside him, the Prince drew the great ugly yellow car out of the hotel entrance, while the Parson, standing amid the crowd of jealous onlookers, waved his hand in merry farewell.
In a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and spluttered as they crossed the Stray, taking the road through Starbeck to Knaresborough, thence south by Little Ribston to Wetherby.
Having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a straight open road where, for the first time his Highness, accustomed as he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a “move” over the ten miles into York, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her seat with both hands, almost breathless.
She had never travelled half so fast before in all her life.
In York they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then out again through Clifton, as far as Shipton Moor, turning up to Beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to Newton-upon-Ouse, in the direction of Knaresborough.
Once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to his Highness and tried to make some remarks. But it was only a sorry attempt. Travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads, without a glass screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating, and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she seemed to delight in it. Curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once the first sensation of danger has passed.
When they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to him to express her great delight at the run.
“Your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your Highness. I’ve never been on a racer before,” she said, “but it was truly delightful. I never had a moment’s anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver.”
Her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled, especially upon any downward incline.
The Prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier. Had she been a girl of twenty he could not have paid “old crow” more attention.
As he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run, and of the rather amorous attitude the obese widow had assumed towards him.
“Good, my dear boy,” exclaimed the urbane cleric, “I told you that she’s the most perfect specimen of the snob we’ve ever met.”
A week went by – a pleasant week, during which Mrs Edmondson, her nose now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the Prince and his chauffeur for runs around the West Riding.
One afternoon they ran over to Ripon, and thence across to the fine old ruins of Fountains Abbey. Like many women of her class and character, the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled about in the great, roofless transept of the Abbey she commenced an enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions. Though living at Whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the place.
“Crowland, in Lincolnshire is very fine,” she remarked, “but this is far finer. Yet we have nothing in England to compare with Pavia, near Milan. Have you ever been there, Prince?”
“Only through the station,” his Highness replied. Truth to tell he was not enthusiastic over ruins. He was a very modern up-to-date young man.
They idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out. One or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various outbuildings.
The Prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory, when he glanced up suddenly at a window.
His face was familiar enough to his Highness, who, however, passed him by as a stranger.
It was Max Mason, only yesterday returned from Copenhagen.
That afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her.
“Ah!” he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a distant part of the great ruined fabric. “You have no idea how very lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince. More often than not I’m compelled to live incognito, for I have ever upon me the fierce glare of publicity. Every movement, every acquaintance I make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by those confounded press fellows. And for that reason I’m often compelled to hold aloof from people with whom I could otherwise be on terms of intimate friendship. Half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who I really am. And then those infernal illustrated papers, both here and on the Continent, are eternally republishing my photograph.”
“It really must be most annoying, Prince,” remarked the widow sympathetically.
“I often adopt the name of Burchell-Laing,” he said, “and sometimes – well,” and he paused, looking her straight in the face. “I wonder, Mrs Edmondson, whether I might confide in you – I mean whether you would keep my secret?”
“I hope I may be permitted to call myself your Highness’s friend,” she said in a calm, impressive tone. “Whatever you may tell me will not, I assure you, pass my lips.”
“I am delighted to have such a friend as yourself,” he declared enthusiastically. “Somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of such brief duration, yet I feel that your friendship is sincere, Mrs Edmondson.”
By this speech the widow was intensely flattered. Her companion saw it in her countenance.
He did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: “My secret is – well a rather curious one, perhaps – but the fact is that I have a dual personality. While being Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, I am also known as Dick Drummond, holder of two records on the Brooklands motor-track. In the motor-world I’m believed to be a young man of means, who devotes his time to motor-racing – a motor-maniac in fact.”