Kitabı oku: «The Heart of a Woman», sayfa 6

Two pictures, vivid and distinct: that evening in Brussels, and the morning in Battersea Park, her first meeting with Luke after his letter to her – the letter which had come to her in the Palace Hotel and which had made her the happiest woman in all the world. Memory – satisfied – had at last emptied the storehouse of that one cell and left Louisa Harris standing here, staring at her father, her ears buzzing with the idle and irresponsible chatter of society jackdaws, her mind seeing all that had happened outside 1 Cromwell Road: the cab stopping, the chauffeur terrified, the crowd collecting, the police taking notes. Her mind saw it as if her bodily eyes had been there, and all that her father told her seemed but the recapitulation of what she knew already.

"Where," she said after awhile, "is the dead man now?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I should imagine they would keep the body at the police station until the morning. I don't suppose they'd be such mugs as to disturb Lord Radclyffe at this time of night; the shock might kill the old man."

"I suppose they are quite sure that it is Philip de Mountford who was killed?"

"Why, yes; he had his pocket-book, his cards, his letters on him, and money too – robbery was not the object of the crime."

"It was Philip de Mountford then?"

"Good God, yes! Of whom were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of Luke," she replied simply.

The old man said nothing more. Had he spoken at all then it would have been to tell her that he, too, was thinking of Luke and that there was perhaps not a single person in the magnificent house at that moment who was not – in some way or another – thinking of Luke.

The hostess came in, elegant and worldly, with banal words to request the pleasure of hearing Miss Harris sing.

"It is so kind of you," she said, "to offer. I have never heard you, you know, and people say you have such a splendid voice. But perhaps you would rather not sing to-night?"

She spoke English perfectly, but with a slight Scandinavian intonation, which seemed to soften the banality of her words. Being foreign, she thought less of concealing her sympathy, and was much less fearful of venturing on delicate ground.

She held out a small, exquisitely gloved hand and laid it almost affectionately on the younger woman's arm.

"I am sure you would rather not sing to-night," she said kindly.

"Indeed, Countess, why should you think that?" retorted Louisa lightly. "I shall be delighted to sing. I wonder which of these new songs you would like best. There is an exquisite one by Guy d'Hardelot. Shall I sing that?"

And Her Excellency, who so charmingly represented Denmark in English society, followed her guest into the reception room: she admired the elegant carriage of the English girl, the slender figure, the soft abundant hair.

And Her Excellency sighed and murmured to herself:

"They are stiff, these English! and oh! they have no feeling, no sentiment!"

And a few moments later when Louisa Harris's really fine voice, firm and clear, echoed in the wide reception room, Her Excellency reiterated her impressions:

"These English have no heart! She sings and her lover is suspected of murder! Bah! they have no heart!"

CHAPTER XIV
THE TALE HAD TO BE TOLD

And whilst the morning papers were unfolded by millions of English men and women, and the details of the mysterious crime discussed over eggs and bacon and buttered toast, Philip de Mountford, the newly found heir presumptive to the Earldom of Radclyffe, was lying in the gloomy mortuary chamber of a London police court, whither he had been conveyed in the same cab whose four narrow walls jealously guarded the secret of the tragedy which had been enacted within their precincts.

Lord Radclyffe had been aroused at ten o'clock the previous night by representatives of the police, who came to break the news to him. It was not late, and the old man was not yet in bed. He had opened the front door of his house himself, his servants – he explained curtly – were spending their evening more agreeably elsewhere.

The house – even to the police officers – appeared lonely and gloomy in the extreme, and the figure of the old man, who should have been surrounded by every luxury that rank and wealth can give, looked singularly pathetic as he stood in his own door-way, evidently unprotected and uncared for, and suspiciously demanding what his late visitors' business might be.

Very reluctantly on hearing the latter's status he consented to admit them. He did not at first appear to suspect that anything wrong might have happened, or that anything untoward could occasion this nocturnal visit: in fact, he seemed unconscious of the lateness of the hour.

He walked straight into the library, where he had obviously been sitting, for an arm-chair was drawn to the fire, a reading lamp was lighted on the table, and papers and magazines lay scattered about.

The police officer in plain clothes, who stood with his subordinate, somewhat undecided, hardly knew how to begin. It was a hard task to break such awful news to this lonely old man.

At last it was done; the word "accident" and "your nephew" were blurted out by the man in command. But hardly were these out of his lips than Lord Radclyffe – livid and trembling – had jumped to his feet.

"Luke!" he contrived to exclaim, and his voice was almost choked, his lips and hands trembled, beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. "Something has happened to Luke."

"No, no, my lord! that's not the name – Philip was on the card and on the letters – Philip de Mountford – that was, I think, the poor gentleman's name."

"And an accident has happened to Mr. Philip de Mountford?"

The voice was quite different now. No longer choked with anxiety, calm and as if mildly interested in passing events. It was obvious even to the strangers present that one nephew was of far greater moment than the other.

"I am afraid, my lord, that it's worse than an accident – "

The officer paused a moment, satisfied that he was doing all that was necessary and possible to mitigate the suddenness of the blow.

"It's foul play," he said at last; "that's what it was."

"Foul play? What do you mean by that?"

"Mr. Philip de Mountford has been murdered, my lord – his body now lies at the police station – would you wish him conveyed home at once, my lord – or wait until after the inquest?"

There was silence in the room for a moment or two, while the old-fashioned clock ticked stolidly on. At the awful announcement, which indeed might have felled a younger and more vigorous man, Lord Radclyffe had not moved. He was still standing, his hand resting on the table beside the piled up newspapers. The light of the lamp veiled by a red shade illumined the transparent delicacy of the high-bred hand, the smooth black surface of the coat, and the glimmering whiteness of the shirt front with its single pearl stud. The face itself was in shadow, and thus the police officer saw little or nothing of that inward struggle for self-mastery which was being put so severely to the test.

Lord Radclyffe, face to face with the awful event, strove by every power at his command to remain dignified and impassive. The lessons taught by generations of ancestors had to bear fruit now, when a representative of the ancient name stood confronting the greatest crisis that one of his kind has ever had to face – the brutal, vulgar fact of a common murder. The realities of a sordid life brought within the four walls of a solemn, aristocratic old house.

For a moment before he spoke again the old man looked round about him, the tall mahogany bookcases filled with silent friends, the busts of Dryden and of Milton, the globes in their mahogany casings: all heirlooms from the generations of de Mountfords who had gone before.

It seemed as if the present bearer of the historic name called all these mute things to witness this present degradation. A crime had smirched the family escutcheon, for to some minds – those who dwell on empyrean heights to which the matter-of-fact sordidness of every-day life never reaches – to those minds the victim is almost as horrible as the assassin.

Lord Radclyffe however fought his own battle silently. Not with one tremor or one gasp would he let the two men see what he felt. Conventionality wielded her iron rod in this shabby old library, just as she had done in the ball room of the Danish Legation, and whilst not two hundred yards away Louisa Harris sang Guy d'Hardelot's songs and smilingly received praise and thanks for her perfect performance, so here the old man never flinched.

He gave to his nerves the word of command, and as soon as he had forced them to obey, he looked straight at the police officer and said quite calmly:

"Please tell me all that I ought to know."

He sat in his high-backed chair, curtly bidding the two men to sit down; he made no attempt to shade his face and eyes; once the battle fought and won he had nothing more to hide: his own face, rigid and still, his firm mouth, and smooth brow were mask enough to conceal the feelings within.

The officer gave the details at full length: he told Lord Radclyffe all that was known of the mysterious crime. The old man listened in silence until the man had finished speaking, then he asked a few questions:

"You have a clue of course?"

"I think so, my lord," replied the officer guardedly.

"Can I help in any way?"

"Any information, my lord, that you think might help us would of course be gladly welcomed."

"The man who hailed the cab in Shaftesbury Avenue – what was he like? I could help you if I knew."

"I'll have his description properly written out, my lord, and bring it you in the morning."

"Can't you tell me now? Every moment lost is irretrievable in cases like these."

"I am afraid, my lord, that I cannot tell you definitely now. There's a dense fog outside – and – "

"The chauffeur's descriptions are vague," interposed Lord Radclyffe with a sneer, "the eternal excuses for incompetence."

"My lord!" protested the man.

"All right! all right! No offence meant I assure you. You must pardon an old man's irritability – the news you have brought me does not make for evenness of temper. I rely on your department to clear this matter up with the least possible scandal."

"I am afraid that scandal is inevitable," retorted the officer dryly, for he still felt sore at Lord Radclyffe's ill-tempered thrust. "We shall have to rake up a great deal of what might be unpleasant to many parties."

"Why should it be unpleasant?"

"We shall have to know something of the murdered man's past, of his associates before – before he was able to establish his claim to your lordship's consideration."

"I have no doubt that the late Philip de Mountford had many undesirable associates in the past," remarked Lord Radclyffe curtly.

The silence which followed was tantamount to a dismissal. The officer rose to go. He felt nettled at the old man's obvious sneers: they had been like a cold douche over his enthusiasm, for the case had already drifted into his hands and it promised to be the most interesting and most sensational criminal case of modern times.

"You have not," he said before taking his leave, "told me, my lord, what you wish done about the body."

"Surely," replied Lord Radclyffe querulously, "it is too late now to make any arrangements. What is the time?"

"Half past ten, my lord."

"Surely to-morrow morning we can discuss all that."

"Just as you wish, of course."

"To-morrow morning – as early as you like. My servants will be at home then – the house will be ready – and I can make arrangements – or else we'll wait, as you say, until after the inquest."

The sound of a bell broke the silence that ensued.

"You must excuse me," said his lordship dryly, "my servants are out, and there's some one at the front door."

"I can hear footsteps below stairs, my lord," remarked the officer.

"Ah! I believe you're right. Those two blackguards must have come home and I didn't know it. They do pretty much as they like."

Shuffling, uncertain footsteps were heard across the hall. The officer said hurriedly:

"One more thing, my lord – you will pardon me asking but – you had not thought of – er – offering a reward?"

"What for?"

"The apprehension of the murderer, or useful information that would lead to conviction."

"Oh! Ah, yes; a reward by all means! Of course I'll give a reward to stimulate incompetence, eh?"

"What will your lordship make it?" asked the officer, determined this time to show no resentment.

"Two hundred – five hundred – have what you like – so long as you get that brute."

"Five hundred, my lord, would stimulate us all."

"Very well," said Lord Radclyffe briefly. "Good evening."

"Good evening, my lord. And to-morrow morning we'll be ready for the body to be taken away, if you wish it. But the inquest will be the day after, so perhaps it might be best to wait until then. At the coroner's court, Victoria, my lord – South Kensington, you know – everything will be all right. Good evening, my lord."

The two men took their leave, glad enough to have done with the unpleasant interview.

As they walked to the door that gave from the library on the hall it was opened from the outside, and a seedy-looking man, dressed in shabby evening clothes that bore many traces of past libations, walked unceremoniously midway into the room.

"Will you see Mr. Luke de Mountford?" he muttered addressing his master.

"Certainly not," replied his lordship. "It's much too late. Ask Mr. Luke to call again to-morrow. And you and your wife can go to bed."

CHAPTER XV
AND MANY MUST BE QUESTIONED

By the time the police officers reached the outer hall door, Luke had received his order of dismissal. He stood on the step for a moment, undecided what to do, and saw the two men coming out of his uncle's study.

They raised their hats as they met him on the door step, and one of them said politely:

"Mr. Luke de Mountford?"

"That is my name," replied Luke.

"Mine is Travers – attached to Scotland Yard. Could I ask you a few questions?"

"Certainly, but not in my uncle's house, I think."

"Of course not; where do you suggest?"

"Here on the door step if you like."

"Hardly. Might I trouble you to step into a cab with me and to come as far as Victoria police court?"

"It's very late, isn't it? I have an engagement at eleven close by here."

He was going to fetch Colonel Harris and Louisa at the Danish Legation and pilot them home to the Langham.

"It's an important matter, Mr. de Mountford," retorted the man. "Are you lodging anywhere near here?"

"In Exhibition Road, Kensington."

"Ah, close to Cromwell Road?"

"Not far."

"Then where shall it be, Mr. de Mountford?"

"Why not in the cab?" remarked Luke.

"Just as you like."

The taxicab which had brought the police officers was standing some few paces farther on, its strong lights only just piercing the intensity of the fog, and its throbbings, as the taximeter marked off twopences with unerring rapidity, filled the night with their strangely familiar sound.

The three men got into the cab, the officer telling the chauffeur to remain stationary until told to move on.

"I know very little about the business, Mr. – er – Travers," remarked Luke as soon as all three of them had stowed themselves fairly comfortably in the interior of the vehicle. "I suppose it is about this ghastly affair that you wanted to speak to me."

"Yes, sir. It was about that. I thought you could give us some information about the late Mr. de Mountford's past life, or his former friends."

"I know nothing," retorted Luke dryly, "of my cousin's past or present life. He did not confide in me."

"But you were good friends?" interposed the other quickly.

"We knew each other very little."

"And to-night?"

"I saw him at his club."

"Where was that?"

"The Veterans' in Shaftesbury Avenue."

"About what time?"

"Between eight and nine."

"You had some talk with him?"

"Yes."

"Pleasant talk?" asked the officer indifferently.

"Family affairs," rejoined Luke dryly.

"And you parted from him?"

"Somewhere about nine."

"In the club?"

"In the club."

"The door steps?"

"No. The lobby."

"He was alone then? I mean – besides yourself was no one with him?"

"No one. The hall porter stood there of course."

"No one joined him afterward?"

"That I cannot say. When I parted from him he was alone."

"You know that Mr. Philip de Mountford was murdered in a taxicab between Shaftesbury Avenue and Hyde Park Corner, soon after nine o'clock?"

"I have heard most of the details of that extraordinary crime.

"And you can throw no light on it at all?"

"None. How could I?"

"Nothing," insisted the police officer, "occurs to you at this moment that might help us in any way to trace the murderer?"

"Nothing whatever."

The man was silent. It seemed as if he was meditating how best to put one or more questions. Up to now these had been curt and to the point, and as they followed one another in quick succession there was a marked difference in the attitude both of the questioner and the questioned. The police officer had started by being perfectly deferential – just like a man accustomed to speak with people whose position in the world compelled a certain regard. He had originally addressed Luke as "sir," just as he had invariably said "my lord" to Lord Radclyffe, but now he spoke much more curtly. There was a note of demand in every question which he put, a peremptoriness of manner which did not escape the observation of his interlocutor.

As the one man became more aggressive so did Luke also change his manner. There had been affable courtesy in his first reply to the questions put to him, a desire to be of help if help was needed, but with his senses attuned by anxiety and nerve strain to distinguish subtle difference of manner and of intention, he was quick enough to notice that he himself was as it were in a witness box, with a counsel ready enough to bully, or to trip up any contradictory statement.

Not that Luke realized the reason of this change. The thought that he could be suspected of a crime was as far removed from his ken as the desire to visit the moon. He could not understand the officer's attitude; it puzzled him, and put him on his guard – but it was just the instinct of self-preservation, of caution, which comes to men who have had to fight the world, and who have met enemies where they least expected to find one.

"Do you remember," now resumed Travers after that slight pause, which had seemed very long to Luke, but as a matter of fact had only lasted a short minute, "whether you saw Mr. Philip de Mountford speaking with any one when you left him in the lobby of the club?"

"I told you," said Luke impatiently, "that he was alone, except for the hall porter."

"Alone in the whole club house?"

"Alone," reiterated Luke with measured emphasis, "in the lobby of the Veterans' Club."

"How many rooms has the club?"

"I don't know; it was the first time I had ever been there."

"Did you know any of the staff?"

"No – since I had never been there before."

"You were not known to any member of the staff?"

"Not that I know of."

"You were shown into the club rooms without being known there at all?"

"The Veterans' Club is a new one, and its rules apparently are not very strict. I asked if Mr. de Mountford was in the club and was told that I should find him in the smoking room, and I did."

"How long did your interview with Mr. de Mountford last?"

"About three quarters of an hour I should say."

"And it was of a perfectly amicable nature?"

"Of a perfectly indifferent nature," corrected Luke.

"And after the interview what did you do?"

"I walked out of the club."

"But after that?"

"I walked about."

"In the fog?" This in an undisguised tone of surprise.

"In the fog."

"In what direction?"

"Really," here rejoined Luke with a sudden show of resentment, "Mr. – er – Travers, I fail to see how my movements can be of concern to you."

He was certainly not going to tell this man that he had made his way through the fog as far as the residence of the Danish Minister, and that he had walked up and down for over an hour outside that house like a love-sick fool, like a doting idiot, because he knew that if he waited patiently he would presently hear the faint echo of a well-trained contralto voice whose mellowness would come to him through the closed windows of the brilliantly illumined mansion, and would ease for a moment the wild longing of his heart.

What the man near him said in answer to his retort he really could not say. He had not heard, for in a moment his thoughts had flashed back to that lonely vigil in the fog, to the sound of her voice, which came, oh! so faintly, to his ear, and then to the first breath of gossip that came from the passers-by, the coachmen and chauffeurs who had drawn up in long rows along the curb, the idlers who always hang about outside in the cold and the damp when a society function is in progress, the pickers-up of unconsidered trifles, lost or willingly bestowed.

From these he had first heard the news: vaguely at first, for he did not – could not – realize that the amazing thing which was being commented on and discussed had anything to do with him. The talk was of murder, and soon the name of de Mountford was mentioned. The details he got were very confused, and the open allusions as to "seek whom the crime will benefit" never really reached his brain, which was almost numb with the violence of the shock.

His first thought after that was to go and see Uncle Rad: he had, for the moment, almost forgotten Louisa. Every other interest in life sank to nothingness beside the one clear duty: Uncle Rad would be alone; the awful news must be broken very gradually to Uncle Rad. He had hurried to Grosvenor Square, only to find that emissaries of the police had forestalled him in his duty.

All this he could not explain to the man Travers. It would have sounded lame and barely plausible. Nowadays men do not walk outside houses wherein their liege lady dwells, and, if they do, they do not choose a foggy night for the sentimental dalliance. He was thankful, therefore, that Travers put no further questions to him, and merely said with a return to his original politeness:

"I am greatly obliged to you, sir. I don't think I need detain you any longer. You said you had an engagement later on; won't you keep this cab?"

Luke thanked him, but refused the offer of the cab.

"It is close by," he said.

"May I call on you to-morrow morning, sir?"

"If it is necessary."

"I am afraid so. You see we don't like to trouble Lord Radclyffe and we must try and obtain knowledge of certain facts and verify others."

"Quite so. Well, to-morrow then."

"Thank you, sir. Your address is – ?"

"Fairfax Mansions, Exhibition Road."

"Such a nice neighbourhood. No fog there to-night I think."

"I hope not. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Luke made his escape from the cab. He was afraid of missing Louisa and her father. His thoughts were somewhat in a whirl, and – being overburdened with matters of paramount importance – were inclined to dwell on trifles.

"I ought," he reflected, "to have taken that man's cab. It might be difficult to get another and Colonel Harris hates waiting in a crowded hall."