Chapter Thirty
Contains the End
For a quarter of an hour we remained there in the presence of the dead.
The grey light in the side-ward faded into darkness. The electric light had not been switched on. The sobs and lamentations of Lady Thorold and her daughter, locked in each other’s arms, began slowly to subside.
Gradually my thoughts drifted to the past, and all that had happened in those years I had known Thorold so intimately, and had loved him almost as a father. One thought afforded me most intense happiness. At last the time had come when I should be able to prove to Vera the intense love I bore her.
“Be good to her – you will be good to her – Dick – always,” had been her father’s dying request. Ah, how well I would obey my dear friend’s last request! Never again should unhappiness of any kind cross his child’s path, if I could prevent it. I would show her how, in my opinion, a husband should treat a wife.
My thoughts drifted to Houghton. What had happened there, I wondered. What was happening now?
Ah! What was happening! Had I known what was happening in those moments I should not, perhaps, have felt as restful as I did.
Next day the newspapers were full of it.
The “Siege,” as they had termed it, had in truth become a real and desperate siege. All attempts to dislodge Paulton, Henderson, and the woman with them, had proved of no avail. Several policemen had since been severely wounded. This was due to the fact that the police, under the impression that the besieged men were armed only with shot-guns, had approached, as they believed with impunity, rather close to the house. All at once, a murderous fusillade had been opened upon them from a shuttered window – only by chance, indeed, had the result not proved again fatal. The wounds the police had received had been dreadful, far worse than bullet wounds, for the assailants had, by cutting the paper cases of the shot-cartridges round the middle with a knife, caused the charge of shot to travel like a bullet, which burst open when it struck.
“It was late in the afternoon,” ran one newspaper account of the conclusion of the siege, “when a big body of police arrived from Oakham, armed with revolvers and rifles, to fire upon the besieged men, and in a few minutes the rattle of musketry rang out, the reports echoing and reverberating in the woods around Houghton Park, and among the distant hills. In return, came shots in quick succession, fired now from one window, then from another. The men hidden in the house seemed to have plenty of ammunition.”
The reporter then indulged in half a column of descriptive writing. After that, he came again to the point —
“Finally, finding that all efforts to dislodge the besieged proved futile, and fearing they might, in their mad fury of revenge, set the house alight, the order was given to renew the attack. This was at once done. The combined fire played havoc upon the house for doors, windows, and shutters were quickly riddled, and even some of the chimney-pots were shattered. At last the return fire ceased entirely, and the order was given to rush the house. This was done, and only just in time. In one of the lower rooms straw, paper, wood shavings and other inflammable material had been piled up, and two paraffin-cans lay upon the floor, both being empty. Evidently it had been the intention of the besieged men to pour paraffin over the inflammable material, but they had found only empty cans. The material had been set on fire, but, not being well alight, was soon extinguished. At once a search was made for the besieged men – a risky undertaking, seeing that they might still be provided with ammunition and lying in concealment to open fire on the besieging party.
“It was in a shuttered room on the first floor that the bodies were at last found. The shutters had been riddled with rifle bullets. The two men and the woman were lying upon the floor, all three had been shot dead. Paulton had received no fewer than three bullet wounds.”
There was much more, but I had read enough. I let the newspaper drop from my nerveless fingers.
Somehow, in spite of these terrible happenings, I felt happy – strangely happy.
At the moment, I had no time to analyse my feelings and discover a reason for the sense of restfulness that had come over me at last, after those weeks of hot, feverish excitement. Later, I knew it was the knowledge that all who could harm my well-beloved had mercifully been removed.
Lady Thorold, Whichelo and Vera were the only people living, besides myself, who knew the grim secret of Sir Charles’ past life. No more would Lady Thorold, kind, gentle, sympathetic woman that she was, be haunted by the fear of blackmail, or terrorised by those human vultures who had so often threatened to reveal what had happened in the house in Belgrave Street in the dead of night years before. And, blessed thought, no more would my darling be harassed, bullied, or made to go almost in fear of her life.
And the gold – those bags of base coin found hidden so carefully at Houghton Hall, hidden there by Whichelo after their removal from Belgrave Street? And the mysterious body discovered in the house in Belgrave Street? Both had been pounced upon by the police.
But my only thought, my only care was of Vera – Vera, my beloved.
No doubt expert men from Scotland Yard were at that moment using all their intelligence, evolving endless abstruse theories, straining every nerve to pierce the mystery surrounding these remarkable discoveries.
I smiled maliciously, as these thoughts occurred to me, and I realised how fruitless all the well-meant endeavours must prove. For never, never now would any one find the true solution. The whole of the strange affair would be written down as a mystery.
Not until three months after poor Sir Charles had been laid to rest at Highgate, did our wedding take place, in Brompton Parish Church. And in the same week, at the same church, another wedding was solemnised. Frank Faulkner and Violet were married on the Tuesday, and I was present in the church beside Vera, who looked so sweet and smart in a pretty afternoon gown.
“Dick, dear, how happy they both are,” she whispered, as Faulkner and his handsome bride passed down the aisle after the service, while the great organ pealed forth the strains of the old, yet ever new and never hackneyed, wedding march of Mendelssohn.
“And how perfectly lovely Violet looks,” I answered.
Whichelo, who was beside us, and whose immense height had occasioned considerable comment among the invited guests, as well as some laughter amongst the crowd gathered together in the street, overhearing my remark, laughed aloud.
“A few more outbursts of unrestrained admiration of that kind,” he growled, in his deep voice, “and I may hear from Thursday’s prospective bride that my services as best man will not be needed!”
Well – what more is there to tell?
We were married two days later, at the same church as Faulkner and Violet – and spent a delightful honeymoon in Denmark and in Norway. Then we returned to dear old London, Lady Thorold having taken up her abode in a small house in Upper Brook Street.
Our most devoted friend to-day is Henry Whichelo – Harry, as he likes us both to call him. He knows everything of the past, yet no syllable of our secret will ever pass his lips. Not a week goes by but he dines at our table, full of his quiet humour, yet sometimes as we sit smoking together in the evening, the subject of those strange happenings – how fresh they still are in the memory of both of us – comes uppermost in our conversation.
“Ah, my dear old Dick,” Harry said to me the other night, as we talked incidentally of the fire at Château d’Uzerche, “how I should have loved to see you sliding down that rope! Young Faulkner has often told me of your really wonderful sang-froid!”
My “sang-froid in moments of crisis” is now a standing joke against me! Vera, it was, who first started it, I believe. Well – I forgive her. I brought it on myself entirely, and must bear the consequences of my overweening conceit in the past!
A warm evening in August. The end of a stifling day.
As I sit writing the final lines of this strange narrative in my cosy little study in our new home – no, our home is not in tiny Rutland, but overlooking Hampstead Heath, a part of London that my wife loves – the crimson sun sinks slowly in the grey haze lying over the great city below. Vera is here with me, in her pale pink dinner-gown, and her fair hair brushes my cheek as she bends over me. Now her soft cheek is pressed to mine.
The blood-red afterglow burns and dies. The summer light is fading. The only sound is the whirr of a car going towards the Spaniards. The air outside is breathless, for the day has been terribly oppressive.
I raise my smiling face to her sweet countenance, and now, all at once, she stoops lower still, until on a sudden access of emotion, she passionately kisses my lips.
“Vera, my love!” I exclaim, looking up into her great blue eyes. “Why – why, what’s the matter, my darling?”
Her eyes are brimming with tears. Her red lips move, but no words escape them. The corners of her mouth are twitching.
“My darling – my own darling, what is it?” I cry, rising to my feet, and folding my arms tenderly about her. Her head is upon my shoulder. She is weeping bitterly.
“Dick,” she exclaims, hardly above a whisper. “Oh, Dick – my darling, my own darling boy, I have been sitting here thinking – dreaming of the past, of all we have been through – of those awful days and nights of anxiety and of dread terror. And now,” the words came with a sob, “oh! I am so completely happy with you, my dearest – so absolutely happy. I can’t describe it. I hardly know – ”
The twilight deepens. I hold her closely in my arms, but I cannot trust myself to speak. Our hearts beat in unison.
Dusk grows into darkness. Still no word passes between us. We are too full of our own reflections, of our own thoughts, of our perfect happiness, now rid as we are for ever, of the grim shadow of evil once placed upon us by “The Mysterious Three.”
The End.