Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PROOF POSITIVE

I was greatly interested, even though I was now filled with suspicion.

Somehow I had become impressed with the idea that the stranger might have been one of the daring and dangerous association, and that he had related that strange story for the purpose of misleading me.

But the stranger, who had, in the course of our conversation, told me that his name was Pierre Delanne, only said —

“You could have read it all in the Matin, my dear monsieur.”

His attitude was that of a man who knew more than he intended to reveal. Surely it was a curious circumstance, standing there in the night, listening to the dramatic truth concerning the big-faced American, Harriman, whom I had for so long regarded as an enigma.

“Tell me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, “for what reason have you followed me to London?”

He laughed as he strode easily along at my side towards the Duke of York’s steps.

“Haven’t I already told you that I did not purposely follow you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but I don’t believe it,” was my very frank reply. He had certainly explained that, but his manner was not earnest. I could see that he was only trifling with me, trifling in an easy, good-natured way.

“Bien!” he said; “and if I followed you, Monsieur Biddulph, I assert that it is with no sinister intent.”

“How do I know that?” I queried. “You are a stranger.”

“I admit that. But you are not a stranger to me, my dear monsieur.”

“Well, let us come to the point,” I said. “What do you want with me?”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “Was it not you yourself who addressed me?”

“But you followed me!” I cried. “You can’t deny that.”

“Monsieur may hold of me whatever opinion he pleases,” was Delanne’s polite reply. “I repeat my regrets, and I ask pardon.”

He spoke English remarkably well. But I recollected that the international thief – the man who is a cosmopolitan, and who commits theft in one country to-night, and is across the frontier in the morning – is always a perfect linguist. Harriman was. Though American, with all his nasal intonation and quaint Americanisms, he spoke half-a-dozen Continental languages quite fluently.

My bitter experiences of the past caused considerable doubt to arise within me. I had had warnings that my mysterious enemies would attack me secretly, by some subtle means. Was this Frenchman one of them?

He saw that I treated him with some suspicion, but it evidently amused him. His face beamed with good-nature.

At the bottom of the broad flight of stairs which lead up to the United Service Club and Pall Mall, I halted.

“Now look here, Monsieur Delanne,” I said, much puzzled and mystified by the man’s manner and the curious story he had related, “I have neither desire nor inclination for your company further. You understand?”

“Ah, monsieur, a thousand pardons,” cried the man, raising his hat and bowing with the elegance of the true Parisian. “I have simply spoken the truth. Did you not put to me questions which I have answered? You have said you are engaged to the daughter of my friend Penning-ton. That has interested me.”

“Why?”

“Because the daughter of my friend Penning-ton always interests me,” was his curious reply.

“Is that an intended sarcasm?” I asked resentfully.

“Not in the least, m’sieur,” he said quickly. “I have every admiration for the young lady.”

“Then you know her – eh?”

“By repute.”

“Why?”

“Well, her father was connected with one of the strangest and most extraordinary incidents in my life,” he said. “Even to-day, the mystery of it all has not been cleared up. I have tried, times without number, to elucidate it, but have always failed.”

“What part did Sylvia play in the affair, may I ask?”

“Really,” he replied, “I scarcely know. It was so utterly extraordinary – beyond human credence.”

“Tell me – explain to me,” I said, instantly interested. What could this man know of my well-beloved?

He was silent for some minutes. We were still standing by the steps. Surely it was scarcely the place for an exchange of confidences.

“I fear that monsieur must really excuse me. The matter is purely a personal one – purely confidential, and concerns myself alone – just – just as your close acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle Sylvia concerns you.”

“It seems that it concerns other persons as well, if one may judge by what has recently occurred.”

“Ah! Then your enemies have arisen because of your engagement to the girl – eh?”

“The girl!” How strange! Pennington’s mysterious friends of the Brescia road had referred to her as “the girl.” So had those two assassins in Porchester Terrace! Was it a mere coincidence, or had he, too, betrayed a collusion with those mean blackguards who had put me to that horrible torture?

Had you met this strange man at night in St. James’s Park, would you have placed any faith in him? I think not. I maintain that I was perfectly justified in treating him as an enemy. He was rather too intimately acquainted with the doings of Harriman and his gang to suit my liking. Even as he stood there beneath the light of the street-lamp, I saw that his bright eyes twinkled behind those gold pince-nez, while the big old-fashioned amethyst he wore on his finger was a conspicuous object. He gave one the appearance of a prosperous merchant or shopkeeper.

“What makes you suggest that the attempt was due to my affection for Sylvia?” I asked him.

“Well, it furnishes a motive, does it not?”

“No, it doesn’t. I have no enemies – as far as I am aware.”

“But there exists some person who is highly jealous of mademoiselle, and who is therefore working against you in secret.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“I regret to admit that it is. Indeed, Monsieur Biddulph, you have every need to exercise the greatest care. Otherwise misfortune will occur to you. Mark what I – a stranger – tell you.”

I started. Here again was a warning uttered! The situation was growing quite uncanny.

“What makes you expect this?”

“It is more than mere surmise,” he said slowly and in deep earnestness. “I happen to know.”

From that last sentence of his I jumped to the conclusion that he was, after all, one of the malefactors. He was warning me with the distinct object of putting me off my guard. His next move, no doubt, would be to try and pose as my friend and adviser! I laughed within myself, for I was too wary for him.

“Well,” I said, after a few moments’ silence, as together we ascended the broad flight of steps, with the high column looming in the darkness, “the fact is, I’ve become tired of all these warnings. Everybody I meet seems to predict disaster for me. Why, I can’t make out.”

“No one has revealed to you the reason – eh?” he asked in a low, meaning voice.

“No.”

“Ah! Then, of course, you cannot discern the peril. It is but natural that you should treat all well-meant advice lightly. Probably I should, mon cher ami, if I were in your place.”

“Well,” I exclaimed impatiently, halting again, “now, what is it that you really know? Don’t beat about the bush any longer. Tell me, frankly and openly.”

The man merely raised his shoulders significantly, but made no response. In the ray of light which fell upon him, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinted, while his shrewd dark eyes twinkled behind them, as though he delighted in mystifying me.

“Surely you can reply,” I cried in anger. “What is the reason of all this? What have I done?”

“Ah! it is what monsieur has not done.”

“Pray explain.”

“Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows everything.”

“Everything!” I echoed. “Then why does she not tell me?”

“She fears – most probably.”

Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk hat which he wore with such jaunty air.

In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing well-dressed people about to sup.

At the corner of the Athenæum Club we halted again, for I wanted to rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.

As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.

“Ah!” he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, “I fear, Monsieur Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest with you?”

That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman’s past and with his undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that daring and dangerous gang.

I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion that the Paris Matin had published all the details was, in all probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia’s father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.

“I don’t think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said stiffly. “Therefore I refuse to believe you further.”

“As you wish,” laughed my companion. “You will believe me, however, ere long – when you have proof. Depend upon it.”

And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.

“You see – ” he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb where we were standing – so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not notice that it had come to a standstill.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, “I quite forgot! I have an appointment. I will wish you bon soir, Monsieur Biddulph. We may meet again – perhaps.” And he raised his hat in farewell.

As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one was inside – that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner by appointment at that corner!

A man’s face peered out for a second, and a voice exclaimed cheerily —

“Hulloa! Sorry I’m late, old chap!”

Then, next instant, on seeing me, the face was withdrawn into the shadow.

Delanne had entered quickly, and, slamming the door, told the man to drive with all speed to Paddington Station.

The taxi was well on its way down Pall Mall ere I could recover from my surprise.

The face of the man in the cab was a countenance the remembrance of which will ever haunt me if I live to be a hundred years – the evil, pimply, dissipated face of Charles Reckitt!

My surmise had been correct, after all. Delanne was his friend!

Another conspiracy was afoot against me!

CHAPTER NINETEEN
THROUGH THE MISTS

It was now the end of September.

All my fears had proved groundless, and I had, at last, learned to laugh at them. For me, a new vista of life had been opened out, for Sylvia had now been my wife for a whole week – seven long dreamy days of perfect love and bliss.

Scarce could we realize the truth that we were actually man and wife.

Pennington had, after all, proved quite kind and affable, his sole thought being of his daughter’s future happiness. I had invited them both down to Carrington, and he had expressed delight at the provision I had made for Sylvia. Old Browning, in his brand-new suit, was at the head of a new staff of servants. There were new horses and carriages and a landaulette motor, while I had also done all I could to refurnish and renovate some of the rooms for Sylvia’s use.

The old place had been very dark and dreary, but it now wore an air of brightness and freshness, thanks to the London upholsterers and decorators into whose hands I had given the work.

Pennington appeared highly pleased with all he saw, while Sylvia, her arms entwined about my neck, kissed me in silent thanks for my efforts on her behalf.

Then came the wedding – a very quiet one at St. Mary Abbot’s, Kensington. Besides Jack Marlowe and a couple of other men who were intimate friends, not more than a dozen persons were present. Shuttleworth assisted the vicar, but Pennington was unfortunately ill in bed at the Hôtel Métropole, suffering from a bad cold. Still, we held the wedding luncheon at the Savoy, and afterwards went up to Scarborough, where we were now living in a pretty suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the harbour, the blue bay, and the castle-crowned cliffs.

It was disappointing to Sylvia that her father had not been present at the wedding, but Elsie Durnford and her mother were there, as well as two or three other of her girl friends. The ceremony was very plain. At her own request, she had been married in her travelling-dress, while I, man-like, had secretly been glad that there was no fuss.

Just a visit to the church, the brief ceremony, the signature in the register, and a four-line announcement in the Times and Morning Post, and Sylvia and I had become man and wife.

I had resolved, on the morning of my marriage, to put behind me all thought of the mysteries and gruesomeness of the past. Now that I was Sylvia’s husband, I felt that she would have my protection, as well as that of her father. I had said nothing to her of her strange apprehensions, for we had mutually allowed them to drop.

We had come to Scarborough in preference to going abroad, for my well-beloved declared that she had had already too much of Continental life, and preferred a quiet time in England. So we had chosen the East Coast, and now each day we either drove out over the Yorkshire moors, or wandered by the rolling seas.

She was now my own – my very own! Ah! the sweet significance of those words when I uttered them and she clung to me, raising her full red lips to mine to kiss.

I loved her – aye, loved her with an all-consuming love. I told myself a thousand times that no man on earth had ever loved a woman more than I loved Sylvia. She was my idol, and more, we were wedded, firmly united to one another, insunderably joined with each other so that we two were one.

You satirists, cynics, misogamists and misogynists may sneer at love, and jeer at marriage. So melancholy is this our age that even by some women marriage seems to be doubted. Yet we may believe that there is not a woman in all Christendom who does not dote upon the name of “wife.” It carries a spell which even the most rebellious suffragette must acknowledge. They may speak of the subjection, the trammel, the “slavery,” and the inferiority to which marriage reduces them, but, after all, “wife” is a word against which they cannot harden their hearts.

Ah! how fervently we loved each other. As Sylvia and I wandered together by the sea on those calm September evenings, avoiding the holiday crowd, preferring the less-frequented walks to the fashionable promenades of the South Cliff or the Spa, we linked arm in arm, and I often, when not observed, kissed her upon the brow.

One evening, with the golden sunset in our faces, we were walking over the cliffs to Cayton Bay, a favourite walk of ours, when we halted at a stile, and sat together upon it to rest.

The wide waters deep below, bathed in the green and gold of the sinking sun, were calm, almost unruffled, unusual indeed for the North Sea, while about us the birds were singing their evening song, and the cattle in the fields were lying down in peace. There was not a breath of wind. The calmness was the same as the perfect calmness of our own hearts.

“How still it is, Owen,” remarked my love, after sitting in silence for a few minutes. From where we sat we could see that it was high tide, and the waves were lazily lapping the base of the cliffs deep below. Now and then a gull would circle about us with its shrill, plaintive cry, while far on the distant horizon lay the trail of smoke from a passing steamer. “How delightful it is to be here – alone with you!”

My arm stole round her slim waist, and my lips met hers in a fond, passionate caress. She looked very dainty in a plain walking costume of cream serge, with a boa of ostrich feathers about her throat, and a large straw hat trimmed with autumn flowers. It was exceptionally warm for the time of year; yet at night, on the breezy East Coast, there is a cold nip in the air even in the height of summer.

That afternoon we had, by favour of its owner, Mr. George Beeforth, one of the pioneers of Scarborough, wandered through the beautiful private gardens of the Belvedere, which, with their rose-walks, lawns and plantations, stretched from the promenade down to the sea, and had spent some charming hours in what its genial owner called “the sun-trap.” In all the north of England there are surely no more beautiful gardens beside the sea than those, and happily their good-natured owner is never averse to granting a stranger permission to visit them.

As we now sat upon that stile our hearts were too full for words, devoted as we were to each other.

“Owen,” my wife exclaimed at last, her soft little hand upon my shoulder as she looked up into my face, “are you certain you will never regret marrying me?”

“Why, of course not, dearest,” I said quickly, looking into her great wide-open eyes.

“But – but, somehow – ”

“Somehow, what?” I asked slowly.

“Well,” she sighed, gazing away towards the far-off horizon, her wonderful eyes bluer than the sea itself, “I have a strange, indescribable feeling of impending evil – a presage of disaster.”

“My darling,” I exclaimed, “why trouble yourself over what are merely melancholy fancies? We are happy in each other’s love; therefore why should we anticipate evil? If it comes, then we will unite to resist it.”

“Ah, yes, Owen,” she replied quickly, “but this strange feeling came over me yesterday when we were together at Whitby. I cannot describe it – only it is a weird, uncanny feeling, a fixed idea that something must happen to mar this perfect happiness of ours.”

“What can mar our happiness when we both trust each other – when we both love each other, and our two hearts beat as one?”

“Has not the French poet written a very serious truth in those lines: ‘Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment; chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie’?”

“Yes, but we shall experience no chagrin, sweetheart,” I assured her. “After another week here we will travel where you will. If you wish, we will go to Carrington. There we shall be perfectly happy together, away in beautiful Devonshire.”

“I know you want to go there for the shooting, Owen,” she said quietly, yet regarding me somewhat strangely, I thought. “You have asked Mr. Marlowe?”

“With your permission, dearest.”

But her face changed, and she sighed slightly.

In an instant I recollected the admission that they had either met before, or at least they knew something concerning each other.

“Perhaps you do not desire to entertain company yet?” I said quickly. “Very well; I’ll ask your father; he and I can have some sport together.”

“Owen,” she said at last, turning her fair face again to mine, “would you think it very, very strange of me, after all that you have done at beautiful old Carrington, if I told you that I – well, that I do not exactly like the place?”

This rather surprised me, for she had hitherto been full of admiration of the fine, well-preserved relic of the Elizabethan age.

“Dearest, if you do not care for Carrington we will not go there. We can either live at Wilton Street, or travel.”

“I’m tired of travelling, dear,” she declared. “Ah, so tired! So, if you are content, let us live in Wilton Street. Carrington is so huge. When we were there I always felt lost in those big old rooms and long, echoing corridors.”

“But your own rooms that I’ve had redecorated and furnished are smaller,” I said. “I admit that the old part of the house is very dark and weird – full of ghosts of other times. There are a dozen or more legends concerning it, as you know.”

“Yes, I read them in the guide-book to Devon. Some are distinctly quaint, are they not?”

“Some are tragic also – especially the story of little Lady Holbrook, who was so brutally killed by the Roundheads because she refused to reveal the whereabouts of her husband,” I said.

“Poor little lady!” sighed Sylvia. “But that is not mere legend: it is historical fact.”

“Well,” I said, “if you do not care for Carrington – if it is too dull for you – we’ll live in London. Personally, I, too, should soon grow tired of a country life; and yet how could I grow tired of life with you, my own darling, at my side?”

“And how could I either, Owen?” she asked, kissing me fondly. “With you, no place can ever be dull. It is not the dulness I dread, but other things.”

“What things?”

“Catastrophe – of what kind, I know not. But I have been seized with a kind of instinctive dread.”

For a few moments I was silent, my arm still about her neat waist. This sudden depression of hers was not reassuring.

“Try and rid yourself of the idea, dearest,” I urged presently. “You have nothing to fear. We may both have enemies, but they will not now dare to attack us. Remember, I am now your husband.”

“And I your wife, Owen,” she said, with a sweet love-look. Then, with a heavy sigh, she gazed thoughtfully away with her eyes fixed upon the darkening sea, and added: “I only fear, dearest – for your sake.”

I was silent again.

“Sylvia,” I said slowly at last, “have you learnt anything – anything fresh which has awakened these strange apprehensions of yours?”

“No,” she faltered, “nothing exactly fresh. It is only a strange and unaccountable dread which has seized me – a dread of impending disaster.”

“Forget it,” I urged, endeavouring to laugh. “All your fears are now without foundation, dearest. Now we are wedded, we will fearlessly face the world together.”

“I have no fear when I am at your side, Owen,” she replied, looking at me pale and troubled. “But when we are parted I – I always fear. The day before yesterday I was full of apprehension all the time you had gone to York. I felt that something was to happen to you.”

“Really, dear,” I said, smiling, “you make me feel quite creepy. Don’t allow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of something else.”

“But I can’t,” she declared. “That’s just it. I only wish I could rid myself of this horrible feeling of insecurity.”

“We are perfectly secure,” I assured her. “My enemies are now aware that I’m quite wide awake.” And in a few brief sentences I explained my curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne.

The instant I described him – his stout body, his grey pointed beard, his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring – she sat staring at me, white to the lips.

“Why,” she gasped, “I know! The description is exact. And – and you say he saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cab as Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it all, Owen.”

“No, dearest,” I said quite calmly. “It all occurred just as I have repeated it to you.”

“And he really entered the taxi with Reckitt? He said, too, that he knew my father – eh?”

“He did.”

She held her breath. Her eyes were staring straight before her, her breath came and went quickly, and she gripped the wooden post to steady herself, for she swayed forward suddenly, and I stretched out my hand, fearing lest she should fall.

What I had told her seemed to stagger her. It revealed something of intense importance to her – something which, to me, remained hidden.

It was still a complete enigma.