Kitabı oku: «The Wiles of the Wicked», sayfa 15
Chapter Twenty Eight
Two Words
For two days the woman I was watching did not go out. I learnt from the chambermaid who, like all her class, was amenable to half a sovereign in her palm, that she was unwell, suffering from a slight cold. Then I took the servant into my confidence, and told her that I was in the hotel in order to watch Mrs Slade’s movements, giving her to understand that any assistance she rendered me would be well paid for.
I had an object in view, namely, to enter her room in her absence, and ascertain the nature of any letters or papers which might be in her possession. This I managed to effect, with the connivance of the chambermaid, on the following afternoon. Indeed, the chambermaid assisted me in my eager search, but beyond a few tradesmen’s bills and one or two unimportant private letters from friends addressed to her at the Royal Hotel at Ryde, I found nothing. The dispatch-box with the coronet was locked, and she carried the key upon her bangle. I made careful search through all her belongings, the chambermaid standing guard at the door the while, and in the pocket of one of her dresses hanging in the wardrobe I discovered a crumpled telegram.
I smoothed it out, and saw that it had been dispatched from Philippopolis, in Bulgaria, about three weeks before, and was addressed to “Mrs Grainger, Royal Hotel, Ryde.” Its purport, however, I was unable to learn, for it was either in cipher, or in the Slav language, of which I had no knowledge whatever.
Again baffled, I was about to relinquish my search, when, in the pocket of a long driving-coat of a light drab cloth, I found a letter addressed to her at Ryde, and evidently forwarded by the hotel-clerk.
I caught sight of my own name, and read it through with interest.
“I suppose you have already heard from your friend Gedge, who keeps you in touch with everything, all the most recent news of Heaton,” the letter ran. “It appears that he was found on the floor of one of the rooms at Denbury, with a wound in his head. He had suddenly gone out of his mind. The doctor said that the case was a serious one, but before arrangements could be made for placing him under restraint he had escaped, and nothing since has been heard of him. The common idea is that he has committed suicide owing to business complications. They are, to tell the truth, beginning to smell a rat in the City. The Prince’s concessions have not turned out all that they were supposed to be, and by a side wind I hear that your friend’s financial status, considerably weakened during the past few weeks, has, owing to his sudden and unaccountable disappearance, dropped down to zero. If you can find him, lose no time in doing so. Remember that he must not be allowed to open his mouth. He may, however, be still of use, for his credit has not altogether gone, and I hear he has a very satisfactory balance at his bankers. But find out all from Gedge, and then write to me.”
There was neither signature nor address.
The words, “he must not be allowed to open his mouth,” were, in themselves, ominous. Who, I wondered, was the writer of that letter? The postmark was that of “London, E.C.,” showing that it had been posted in the City.
I read it through a second time, then replaced it, and after some further search returned to my own room.
When the maid brought my hot water next morning she told me that Mrs Slade had announced her intention to leave at eleven o’clock; therefore I packed, and leaving slightly earlier, was enabled to follow her cab to Victoria Station, whence she travelled to Brighton, putting up at the Métropole. I pursued similar tactics to those I had adopted in London, staying in the same hotel and yet contriving never to be seen by her. She went out but seldom. Sometimes in the morning she would stroll beneath her pale mauve sunshade along the King’s Road, or at evening take an airing on the pier, but she apparently lived an aimless life, spending her time in reading novels in her own apartment. As far as I could learn, she met no one there, and only appeared to be killing time and waiting. After a fortnight she moved along to Hastings, thence to Ilfracombe, and afterwards to Hull.
We arrived at the North-Eastern Hotel at Hull one evening towards the end of August, having travelled by the express from London. Through nearly a month I had kept close watch upon her, yet none of her movements had been in the least suspicious. She lived well, always having her own sitting-room, although she had no maid. Those days of watchfulness were full of anxiety, and I had to resort to all sorts of ingenious devices to prevent observation and recognition.
The station hotel at Hull is comfortable, but by no means a gay place of residence, and for several days I wondered what might be her object in visiting that Yorkshire port. The room adjoining her sitting-room on the second floor became vacant on the third day after our arrival, and I fortunately succeeded in obtaining it. She entertained no suspicion that I was following her, although I dogged her movements everywhere.
In Hull she only went out twice, once to a stationer’s in Whitefriar-gate, and on the other occasion to the telegraph office. As at Brighton and Ilfracombe, she still appeared to be waiting in patience for the arrival of some one whom she expected.
About nine o’clock one evening, after she had remained nearly a week in Hull, always taking her meals in her own room and passing her time in reading, I had returned from the coffee-room, and was about to go forth for a stroll, when suddenly I heard a waiter rap at her door and announce a visitor.
A locked door separated her sitting-room from mine, and standing by it, listening eagerly, I heard the sound of rustling paper, the hurried closing of a box, and her permission to show the visitor up.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then I heard some one enter, and a man’s voice exclaimed with a distinctly foreign accent —
“Ah, my dear Edna! At last! I feared that you would have left before my arrival.”
“I expected you days ago,” she answered, and I knew from the man’s sigh that he had sunk wearily into a chair.
“I was delayed,” he explained. “I had a narrow escape. Oustromoff has guessed the truth.”
“What?” she gasped in alarm, “The secret is out?”
“Yes,” he answered gruffly.
“Impossible!”
“I tell you it’s the truth,” he answered. “I escaped over the frontier by the merest chance. Oustromoff’s bloodhounds were at my heels. They followed me to Vienna, but there I managed to escape them and travel to Berlin. I knew that there was a warrant out for me – Roesch sent me word that orders had been issued by the Minister of Police – therefore I feared to cross to England by any of the mail routes. I knew the police would be on the look-out at Calais, Antwerp, Ostend, Folkestone, and Dieppe. Therefore I travelled to Copenhagen, thence by steamer to Gothenburg, and rail to Christiania. I arrived by the weekly mail steamer from there only an hour ago.”
“What a journey!” exclaimed the woman I had been watching so long and patiently. “Do you actually mean that you are unsafe – here, in England?”
“Unsafe? Of course. The Ministry have telegraphed my description to all police centres, with a request for my extradition.”
“It is inconceivable,” she cried, “just at the moment when all seemed safest, that this catastrophe should fall! What of Roesch, Blumhardt, and Schaefer?”
“Schaefer was arrested in Sofia on the day I left. Blumhardt escaped to Varna, but was taken while embarking on board a cargo-boat for England. I tell you I had a narrow escape – a very narrow escape.”
“Then don’t speak so loud,” she urged. “Some one might be in the next room, you know.”
He rose and tried the door at which I stood. It was locked, and that apparently reassured him.
“Whom do you think informed the Ministry of Police?”
“Ah! at present no one knows,” he responded. “What do you think they say?”
“What?”
“That some of your precious friends in London have exposed the whole thing.”
“My friends? Whom do you mean?”
“You know best who are your friends,” he replied, with sarcasm.
“But no one is aware of the whole facts.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the loan for the Prince?” he said. “Have you raised it?”
“No; the thing is too dangerous in these circumstances. I have made a full report. You received it, I suppose?”
“No; I must have left Sofia before it arrived. Tell me.”
“That very useful fool named Heaton has suddenly gone out of his mind.”
“Insane?”
“Yes,” she responded. “At least, he seems so to me. I placed the matter before him, but he refused to have anything whatever to do with it. His standing in the City has been utterly shattered by all sorts of rumours regarding the worthlessness of certain of the concessions, and as far as we are concerned our hopes of successfully raising the loan have now disappeared into thin air.”
“What!” he cried. “Have you utterly failed?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Heaton assisted us while all was square, but now, just when we want a snug little sum for ourselves, he has suddenly become obstinate and refuses to raise a finger.”
“Curse him! He shall assist us – by Heaven! I’ll – I’ll compel him!” cried her mysterious companion furiously.
“To talk like that is useless,” she responded. “Remember that he knows something.”
“Something, yes. But what?”
“He knows more than we think.”
“Where is he now?”
“Nobody can discover. I saw him once, but he has disappeared. They say he’s a wandering lunatic. He left Denbury suddenly after showing signs of madness, and although that terror of a woman, his wife, strove to trace him, she was unsuccessful. His insanity, coupled with the fact that financial ruin overtook him suddenly, apparently preyed upon her mind. She fell ill, and according to a letter I received from Gedge a few days ago, she died suddenly of an aneurism, and was buried last Thursday at Budleigh-Salterton. The announcement of her death was in yesterday’s papers.”
I listened to those words open-mouthed. My wife was dead! Then I was free!
With my strained ear close to the thin wood of the door I stood breathless, fearing that they might distinguish the rapid beating of my heart.
“Your ingenuity has always been extraordinary, madame,” he said reflectively, “but in this last affair you have not shown your usual tact.”
“In what manner?”
“His Highness places confidence in you, yet you sit idly here, and profess yourself unable to assist him.”
“A warrant is out against you; nevertheless, you still consider the Prince your friend. That is curious!” she remarked, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Most certainly. It was Oustromoff’s doings. His Highness is powerless to control the Ministry of Police.”
“And you believe that you will be safe in England?” she inquired dubiously.
“I believe so, providing that I exercise care,” he responded. “After to-night it is best that we should remain strangers – you understand?”
“Of course.”
“And Mrs Anson and her charge? Are they at a safe distance?”
“Yes. When I met Heaton he inquired after them. He particularly wished to discover them, and of course I assisted him.”
They both laughed in chorus. But her words in themselves were sufficient proof that she feared the result of our re-union. They impressed upon me the truth of my suspicion, namely, that Mabel held the key to the enigma.
“What does he know?” asked the man, evidently referring to me.
“He is aware of the spot where the affair took place,” she answered.
“What?” gasped her companion in alarm. “That can’t be. He was stone blind, you said!”
“Certainly he was. But by some means – how I can’t say – he has ascertained at least one fact.”
“Did he make any remark to you?”
“Of course he did. He gave me to understand that he was acquainted with the details of the whole affair.” A long silence fell between them.
The mention of Mrs Anson and her charge held me breathless. The “charge” referred to was evidently Mabel. I only hoped that from this conversation I might obtain some clue to the whereabouts of my darling.
“I wonder how much Heaton really does know?” observed her visitor reflectively at last.
“Too much, I fear,” she answered. No doubt she recollected how I had expressed my determination to go to Scotland Yard.
Again there was a prolonged pause.
“Roesch has arrived in London. I must see him,” exclaimed the man.
“In London? I thought he was still at his post in the Ministry at Sofia,” she said in a tone of surprise.
“He was fortunate enough to obtain early intimation of Oustromoff’s intentions, and after warning me, escaped the same evening. He took steamer, I heard, from Trieste to London.”
“Why associate yourself further with that man?” she urged. “Surely it will only add to the danger.”
“What concerns myself likewise concerns him,” he answered rather ambiguously.
“You have apparently of late become closer friends. For what reason?”
“You will see later.”
“With some distinctly evil purpose, I have no doubt,” she observed, “but remember that I have no further interest in any of your future schemes.”
He grunted dubiously.
“Now that you think our fortunes have changed you contemplate deserting us, eh?” he snapped. “A single word to the Prince and you would conclude your career rather abruptly, I’m thinking.”
“Is that intended as a threat?” she inquired in a calm voice.
“Take it as such, if you wish,” the man responded angrily. “Through your confounded bungling you’ve brought exposure upon us. We have only you to thank for it. You know me quite well enough to be aware that when I make threats they are never idle ones.”
“And you are sufficiently well acquainted with me to know that I never run unnecessary risks.”
“I know you to be a devilishly clever woman,” he said. “But in your dealings with that man Heaton you showed weakness – a coward’s weakness. All that he knows is through your own folly. You attempted to mislead him by your actions and letters, but he has, it seems, been a little too shrewd for you.”
“And if he does know the truth – even, indeed, if he dared to inform the police – what direct evidence can he give, pray?” she queried. “He was blind, and therefore saw nothing. He is now mad, and nobody will believe him.”
“Even though he may be an idiot his mouth is better closed,” her companion growled.
His words startled me. This unseen man’s intention was apparently to make a further attempt upon my life. But I chuckled within myself. Forewarned is forearmed.
Just at that moment I heard the waiter tap at the door, and opening it, announce the arrival of another visitor – a Mr Roesch.
“Why, I wonder, has he sought you here?” exclaimed the man when the waiter had gone. “He must have some important news!”
Next moment the door was again thrown open, and the new arrival entered.
All three spoke quickly together in a foreign tongue. The man Roesch then made a brief statement, which apparently held his two companions for some moments speechless in alarm. Then again they all commenced talking in low confidential tones in that strange language – Slav I believe it was.
Whatever it might have been, and although I understood no word of it, it brought back vividly to my memory the indelible recollection of the night of the tragedy at The Boltons.
I listened attentively. Yes, there was no mistake – those tones were familiar. That trio of voices were the same that with my sharpened ears I had overheard conversing in the inner room immediately before the commission of the crime.
I have said that my nerves were shattered. All the past was a torturing memory to me, but the quintessence of that torture was my failure to discover my love. I believed that she alone could supply the solution of the enigma, and what truth there was in that suspicion you shall duly see.
The three voices continued to speak in that foreign tongue for perhaps half an hour, during which period I was unable to form any idea of the trend of the new-comer’s announcement.
Then I heard the visitors taking their leave, apparently with many of those gesticulated reassurances of respect which mark the shallow foreigner. I extinguished my light and opened my door cautiously. As they passed on their way down the corridor I succeeded in obtaining a very good view of the interesting pair. They were talking together, and I distinguished the man who had first called upon Edna by his deep voice. He was a short, thick-set, black-bearded man of forty, well-dressed in black, with a heavy gold albert across his ample vest. His companion, whose name was apparently Roesch, was considerably older, about fifty-five or so, of spare build, erect, thin-faced, with long grey whiskers descending from either cheek, and shaven chin. He wore a frock-coat and silk hat, and was of a type altogether superior to his companion.
The woman Grainger’s coffee was brought to her as usual in the morning, but about ten o’clock she rang again, and when the chambermaid responded, said —
“Here are two letters. Post them for me in the box in the bureau, and tell them to send my bill at once. I leave at ten forty-five.”
“Yes’m.” And the girl departed to post the letters.
To whom, I wondered, were those letters addressed? Within my mind I strove to devise some plan whereby I could obtain a glance at the addresses. The box, however, was only at the foot of the stairs, therefore ere I could resolve upon any plan the girl had dropped them into it, and I heard her linen flounces beating along the corridor again. Those letters were in the post, and beyond my reach.
She had written those two missives during the night, and after the departure of her visitors. They had, no doubt, some connexion with the matter which the trio had so earnestly discussed in that tantalising foreign tongue.
In hesitancy I remained some little time, then a sudden thought occurred to me. I addressed an envelope to the hall-porter of my club, enclosing a blank sheet of paper, and then descending, posted it. The box was placed outside the bureau, and the instant I had dropped the letter in I turned, as though in anger with myself, and, entering the bureau, said to the clerk —
“I’ve unfortunately posted a letter without a stamp. Have you the key of the box?”
“The box belongs to the Post Office, sir,” he answered. “But we have a key to it.”
“Then I should esteem it a favour if you would recover my letter for me. It is most important that the addressee should not be charged for its postage. I regret that my absent-mindedness should give you this trouble.”
The clerk took the key from a drawer at the end of the bureau, and opening the box, took out the half-dozen or so letters which it contained, and spread them upon the desk. Among them were two square, pale-faced envelopes. As I took my own letter and affixed a stamp I glanced eagerly at the address of both.
One bore the superscription: “Mr P. Gechkuloff, 98, King Henry’s Road, Hampstead, N.W.”
Upon the other were words which caused my heart to leap joyfully within me. They were —
“Miss Mabel Anson, Langham Hotel, London.”
I posted my letter, hurried upstairs and paid my bill. Edna had already packed her trunk, but had changed her mind, and did not intend leaving Hull that day. I heard her inform the chambermaid of her intention of remaining, then I left the hotel, and caught the ten-forty-five express for London.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Enigma
At five o’clock that same afternoon I alighted from a taxi before the Langham Hotel, and presenting my card at the bureau, inquired for Miss Anson. The clerk looked at me rather curiously, I thought, glanced at the card, and entering the telephone-box, spoke some words into the instrument.
I was shown into a small room on the first floor, where I waited until a gentlemanly, middle-aged, fair-headed man entered, with my card in his hand.
“Good afternoon,” he said, greeting me rather stiffly. “Her Highness is at present out driving. Is there anything I can do? I am her secretary.”
“Her Highness?” I echoed, with a smile. “There must be some mistake. I have called to see Miss Mabel Anson.”
He regarded me with some surprise.
“Are you, then, unaware that Anson is the name adopted by Her Highness to preserve her incognita?” he asked, glancing at me in quick suspicion. “Are you not aware of her real rank and station?”
“No!” I cried, in blank amazement. “This is indeed a revelation to me! I have known Miss Anson intimately during the past six years. What is her true rank?”
“The lady whom you know as Miss Anson is Her Imperial Highness the Archduchess Marie Elizabeth Mabel, third daughter of His Majesty the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria.”
“Mabel! The daughter of an Emperor?” I gasped involuntarily. “Impossible!”
He shrugged his shoulders. He was a foreigner, although he spoke English well – an Austrian most probably.
“You are surprised,” he laughed. “Many people have also been surprised, as the Archduchess, living in England nearly her whole life, has frequently been taken for an Englishwoman.”
“I can’t believe it!” I cried. “Surely there must be some mistake!”
I remembered those days of long ago when we had wandered together in Kensington Gardens. How charming and ingenuous she was: how sweet and unaffected by worldly vanities, how trustful was that look when she gazed into my eyes! Her air was never that of the daughter of the reigning House of Hapsbourg-Lorraine. She had possessed all the enchantment of ideal grace without the dignity of rank, and it seemed incredible that she was actually a princess whose home was the most brilliant Court of Europe.
“I can quite understand your surprise,” observed the secretary. “But what is the nature of your business with Her Highness?”
“It is of a purely private nature.”
He glanced at the card. “The Archduchess does not receive callers,” he answered coldly.
“But at least you will give her my name, and tell her that I have something of urgent importance to communicate to her,” I cried eagerly.
He hesitated. “If you are, as you allege, an old friend, I will place your card before her,” he said at last, with some hesitation. “You may leave your address, and if Her Highness consents to receive you I will communicate with you.”
“No,” I answered in desperation; “I will remain and await her return.”
“That is impossible,” he responded. “She has many engagements, and certainly cannot receive you to-day.”
I recollected that the letter I had found at Denbury made it plain that we had parted abruptly. If this man gave her my card without any word, it was more than likely that she would refuse to see me.
Therefore I entered into argument with him, but while I was speaking the door opened suddenly, and my love stood before me.
She halted there, elegantly dressed, having just returned from her drive, and for a moment we faced each other speechless.
“Mr Heaton!” she cried, and then, in breathless hurry arising from the sudden and joyful surprise, she rushed forward.
Our hands grasped. For the moment I could utter no word. The secretary, noticing our mutual embarrassment, discreetly withdrew, closing the door after him.
Once again I found myself, after those six lost years, alone with my love.
“At last!” I cried. “At last I have found you, after all these months!” I was earnestly gazing into her great dark eyes. She had altered but little since that night long ago at The Boltons, when I had discovered the traces of that hideous tragedy.
“And why have you come back to me now?” she inquired in a low, strained voice.
“I have striven long and diligently to find you,” I answered frankly, “because – because I wished to tell you how I love you – that I have loved you always – from the first moment that we met.”
A grave expression crossed her countenance.
“And yet you forsook me! You calmly broke off the secret engagement that we had mutually made, and left me without a single word. You have married,” she added resentfully, “therefore it is scarcely fitting that you should come here with a false declaration upon your lips.”
“It is no false declaration, I swear,” I cried. “As for my wife, I knew her not, and she is now dead.”
“Dead!” she gasped. “You knew her not! I don’t understand.”
“I have loved you always – always, Princess – for I have only ten minutes ago ascertained your true rank – ”
“Mabel to you – as always,” she said, softly interrupting me.
“Ah, thank you for those words!” I cried, taking her small gloved hand. “I have loved you from the first moment that we met at the colonel’s, long ago – you remember that night?”
“I shall never forget it,” she faltered in that low tone as of old, which was as sweetest music to my ears.
“And you remember that evening when I dined with you at The Boltons?” I said. “Incomprehensible though it may seem, I began a new life from that night, and for six whole years have existed in a state of utter unconsciousness of all the past. Will you consider me insane if I tell you that I have no knowledge whatever of meeting you after that night, and only knew of our engagement by discovering this letter among my private papers a couple of months ago?” and I drew her letter from my pocket.
“Your words sound most remarkable,” she said, deeply interested. “Relate the whole of the facts to me. But first come along to my own sitting-room. We may be interrupted here.”
And she led the way to the end of the corridor, where we entered an elegant little salon, one of the handsome suite of rooms she occupied.
She drew forth a chair for me, and allowing a middle-aged gentlewoman – her lady-in-waiting, I presume – to take her hat and gloves, we once more found ourselves alone.
How exquisitely beautiful she was! Yet her royal birth, alas! placed her beyond my reach. All my hopes and aspirations had been in an instant crushed by the knowledge of her rank. I could only now relate to her the truth, and seek her forgiveness for what had seemed a cruel injustice.
I took her unresisting hand, and told her how long ago I had loved her, not daring to expose to her the great secret of my heart. If we had mutually decided upon marriage, and I had deliberately deserted her, it was, I declared, because of that remarkable unconsciousness which had blotted out all knowledge of my life previous to that last night when we had dined together, and I had accompanied the man Hickman to his lodgings.
“But tell me all,” she urged, “so that I can understand and judge accordingly.”
And then, beginning at the beginning, I recounted the whole of the amazing facts, just as I have narrated them to the reader in these foregoing chapters.
I think the telling occupied most part of an hour; but she sat there, her lovely eyes fixed upon me, her mouth half open, held dumb and motionless by the strange story I unfolded. Once or twice she gave vent to ejaculations of surprise, and I saw that only by dint of supreme effort did she succeed in preserving her self-control. I told her everything. I did not seek to conceal one single fact.
“And he was actually murdered in my house?” she cried, starting up at last. “You were present?”
I explained to her in detail the events of that fateful night.
“Then at last the truth is plain!” she exclaimed. “You have supplied the key to the enigma for which I have been so long in search!”
“Tell me,” I said, in breathless earnestness. “All these years I have been striving in vain to solve the problem.”
She paused, her dark, fathomless eyes fixed upon me, as though lacking courage to tell me the truth.
“I deceived you, Wilford, from the first,” she faltered, “I hid from you the secret of my birth, and it was at my request Colonel Channing – who, of course, knew me well when he was British Attaché at Vienna – refused to tell you the truth. You wonder, of course, that I should live in England incognita. Probably, however, you know that my poor mother, the late Empress, loved England and the English. She gave me an English name at my baptism, and when only five years of age I was sent here to be educated. At seventeen I returned to Vienna, but soon became tired of the eternal glitter of palace life, and a year or two later, as soon as I was of age and my own mistress, I returned to London, took into my service Mrs Anson, the widow of an English officer well known to my mother, and in order to preserve my incognita caused her to pass as my mother. I took the house at The Boltons, and only Colonel and Mrs Channing knew my real station. I was passionately fond of music, and desired to complete my studies, besides which I am intensely fond of London and of life unfettered by the trammels which must hamper the daughter of an Emperor.”
“You preferred a quiet, free life in London to that at your father’s Court?”
“Exactly,” she answered. “At twenty-one I had had my fill of life at Court, and found existence in London, where I was unknown, far more pleasant. Besides Mrs Anson, I had as companion a young Englishwoman who had been governess in a well-known family in Vienna. Her name was Grainger.”
“Grainger?” I cried. “Edna Grainger?”
“The same. She was my companion. Well, after I had been established at The Boltons nearly a year I met, while on a visit to a country house, a young man with whom I became on very friendly terms – Prince Alexander, heir to the throne of Bulgaria. We met often, and although I still passed as Mabel Anson, our acquaintanceship ripened into a mutual affection. With a disregard for the convenances, I induced Mrs Anson to invite him on several occasions to The Boltons. One morning, however, I received a private message from Count de Walkenstein-Trosburg, our ambassador here, saying that he had received a cipher telegraphic dispatch that my father, the Emperor, was very unwell, and his Excellency suggested that I should return to Vienna. This I did, accompanied by Mrs Anson, and, leaving the woman Grainger in charge of the household as usual, I wrote to the young Prince from Vienna, but received no reply, and when I returned a fortnight later searched for him in vain. He had mysteriously disappeared. A few days before, in my dreams, I had seen the fatal raven, the evil omen of my House, and feared the worst.”
