“If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer should call, admit any of them immediately. To all others say that I have left town—some days ago, should they ask you.“C. D.”
“If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer should call, admit any of them immediately. To all others say that I have left town—some days ago, should they ask you.
“C. D.”
White, round-eyed and bullet-headed, gazed with goggle orbs over Bruce’s shoulder.
“That settles it, Mr. Bruce,” he said. “Wemustsee him.”
“Thompson,” said Bruce, “does Sir Charles usually lock his door?”
“Never, sir.”
“Very well. Knock again, and then try the door. We will go with you.”
Something in the barrister’s manner rather than his words sent a cold shiver down the old butler’s spine.
“I do hope there’s nothing wrong, sir,” he commenced;but Bruce was already half-way up the stairs. Both he and White guessed what had happened. They knew that poor Thompson’s repeated summons at the bedroom door would remain forever unanswered—that the unfortunate baronet had quitted the dread certainties of this world for the uncertainties of the next.
They were not mistaken. A few minutes later they found him listlessly drooping over the side of the chair in which he was seated, partly undressed, and seemingly overcome at the moment when he was about to take off his boots.
On a table near him were two bottles, both half-emptied, and an empty wineglass. Each of the bottles bore the label of a well-known chemist. One was endorsed “Sleeping-draught,” the other “Poison,” and “Chloral.”
The three men were pale as the limp, inanimate form in the chair while they silently noted these details. Bruce raised the head of his friend in the hope that life might not yet be extinct. But Sir Charles Dyke had taken his measures effectually. Though therigor mortishad not set in, he had evidently been dead some time.
Thompson, quite beside himself with grief, dropped to his knees by his master’s side.
“Sir Charles!” he wailed. “Sir Charles! For the love of Heaven, speak to us. You can’t be dead. Oh, you can’t. It ain’t fair. You’re too young to die. What curse has come upon the house that both should go?”
Bruce leaned over and shook the old butler firmly by the shoulder.
“Thompson,” he said impressively, for now that the crisis he feared had come and gone, he exercised full control over himself. “Thompson, if you ever wished to serve Sir Charles you must do so now by remaining calm.For his sake, help us, and do not create an unnecessary scene.”
Governed by the more powerful nature, the affrighted man struggled to his feet.
“What shall I do?” he whimpered. “Shall I send for a doctor?”
“Yes; say Sir Charles is very ill. Not a word to a soul about what has happened until we have carefully examined the room.”
At that instant Mr. White caught sight of a large and bulky envelope, which had fallen to the floor near the chair on which Sir Charles was seated.
Picking it up, he found it was addressed, “Claude Bruce, Esq. To be delivered to himat once.”
“This will explain matters, I expect,” said the detective.
“Whatever could have come to my master to do such a thing?” groaned Thompson, turning to reach the door.
“Come back,” cried Bruce sharply. “Now, look here, Thompson,” he went on, placing both his hands on the butler’s shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes, “it is imperative that you should pull yourself together. That sort of remark will never do. Sir Charles has simply taken an over-dose of chloral accidentally. He has slept badly ever since Lady Dyke’s death, you understand, and has been in the habit of taking sleeping-draughts. Now, before you leave the room tell me exactly what has happened, in your own language.”
“I can’t put it together now, sir, but I won’t say anything to anybody. You can trust me for that. Why, I loved him as my own son, I did.”
“Yes, I know that well. But remember. An over-dose. An accident. Nothing else. Do you follow me?”
“Quite, sir. Heaven help us all.”
“Very well. Now send for the doctor, without needlessly alarming the other servants.”
Bruce placed the envelope in the pocket of his overcoat, saying to the detective:
“We will examine this later, White. Just now we must do what we can to avoid a scandal. The case between Lady Dyke and her husband will be settled by a higher tribunal than we had counted upon.”
“It certainlylookslike an accident, Mr. Bruce,” was the answer, “but it all depends upon the view the doctor takes. And you know, of course, that I shall have to report the actual facts to my superiors.”
“That is obvious. Yet no harm is done at this early stage in taking such steps as may finally render undue publicity needless. It may be impossible; but on the other hand, until we have heard Sir Charles’s version, contained, I suppose, in this letter to me, it is advisable to sustain the theory of an accidental death.”
“Anything I can do to help you will be done,” replied the detective. With that they dropped the subject, and more carefully scrutinized the room.
To all intents and purposes Sir Charles Dyke might, indeed, have brought about the catastrophe inadvertently. The sleeping-draught bore the ledger number of its prescription, and there is nothing unusual in a patient striving to help the cautious dose ordered by a physician by the addition of a more powerful nostrum.
His partly dressed state, too, argued that he had taken the fatal mixture at a time when he contemplated retiring to rest forthwith. A fire still burned in the grate. On the mantelpiece—in a position where the baronet must see it until the moment when all things faded from his vision—was a beautiful miniature of his wife.
The detective, with professional nonchalance, soon sat down. There was nothing to do but await the arrival of the doctor, and, having heard his report, go home.
In the quietude of the room, with the strain relaxed, Bruce was profoundly moved by the spectacle of his dead friend. Whatever his logical faculties might argue, he could not regard this man as a murderer. If Lady Dyke met her death at his hand then it must have been the result of some terrible mistake—of some momentary outburst of passion which never contemplated such a sequel.
Poisons which kill by stupefaction do not distort their victims as in cases where violent irritants are used. Sir Charles Dyke seemed to live in a deep sleep, exhausted by toil or pain—sleep the counterfeit of death—while the bright colors and speaking eyes of the miniature counterfeited life. Standing between these two—both the mere images of the man and the woman he had known so well—the barrister insensibly felt that at last they had peace.
It was his first experience of the tremendous change in the relationship established by death. It utterly overpowered him. No mere words could express his emotions. Between him and those that had been was imposed the impenetrable wall of eternity.
A bustle in the hall beneath aroused him from his grief-stricken stupor, and Mr. White’s commonplace tones sounded strange to his ears.
“Here’s the doctor.”
A well-known physician hastened to the room. Thompson had carefully followed instructions. The doctor was not prepared for the condition of affairs that a glance revealed to his practised eye.
“Surely he is not dead?” he cried, looking from the form in the chair to the two men.
Bruce answered him:
“Yes, for some hours, I fear, but we wanted to avoid spreading unnecessary rumors until—”
“I understand. My poor friend! How came this to happen?”
The skilled practitioner merely lifted one of the dead man’s eyelids, and then turned to examine the bottles on the table.
“My own prescription,” he said, after tasting the contents of one phial. “Ah, this was bad; why did he not consult me?” and he sadly shook his head as he tasted the remaining liquid in the second.
“What do you make of it?” said Bruce.
He looked the other steadily in the face and the doctor interpreted the cause of his anxiety.
“A clear case of accidental poisoning,” he replied. “Sir Charles has consulted me several times during the past week on account of his extreme insomnia. I specifically warned him against overdoing my treatment. Change of air, exercise, and diet are the true specifics for sleeplessness, especially when induced, as his was, by a morbid state of mind.”
“You mean—”
“That Sir Charles has never recovered from the shock of his wife’s death. I did not know of it myself until it was announced recently, and I gathered from him that the manner of her demise was partly unaccounted for. Altogether, it is a sad business that such a couple should be taken in such a manner.”
Mr. White was industriously taking notes the while, and the doctor regarded him with a questioning look.
“This gentleman is in the police,” explained Bruce.
“Indeed!”
“Yes. We came here by mere accident. Mr. White and I were engaged in an important inquiry—the cause of Lady Dyke’s disappearance, in fact—and we hurried here at a late hour to consult with Sir Charles. Hence our presence and this discovery.”
“How strange!”
“There is no reason now,” broke in the detective, “why the body should not be moved?”
Claude shuddered at the phrase. It suggested the inevitable.
“Not in the least. I am quite satisfied as to the cause of death.”
The despatch of telegrams and other necessary details kept Bruce busily employed until two o’clock. Not until he reached the privacy of his own library was he able to break the seal of the packet left for him as the final act and word of the late Sir Charles Dyke.
(Being the Manuscript left by Sir Charles Dyke, Bart., and addressed to Claude Bruce, Esq., Barrister-at-law)
(Being the Manuscript left by Sir Charles Dyke, Bart., and addressed to Claude Bruce, Esq., Barrister-at-law)
It is customary, I believe, for poor wretches who are sentenced to undergo the last punishment of the law to be allowed a three weeks’ respite between the date of their sentence and that on which they are executed. I am in the position of such a one. The difference between me and the convicted felon lies merely in environment; in most respects I am worse situated than he. My period of agony is longer drawn out, I am condemned to die by my own hand, I am mocked by the surroundings of luxury, taunted by the knowledge that though life and even a sort of happiness are within my reach I must not avail myself of them.
There may come a time in the affairs of any man when he is compelled to choose between a dishonored existence and voluntary death. These unpleasant alternatives are now before me. You, who know me, would never doubt which of them I should adopt, nor will you upbraid me because our judgments coincide. There is nothing for it, Bruce, but quiet death—death in the least obtrusive form, and so disposed that it may be possible for you, chief among my friends and the only person I can trust to fulfil my wishes, to arrange that my memory may be speedily forgotten. My virtues, I fear, will not secure me immortality;my faults, I hope, will not be spread broadcast to cram the maws of the gaping crowd.
I do not shirk this final issue, nor do I crave pity. In setting forth plainly the history of my wife’s death and its results, I am actuated solely by a desire to protect others from needless suspicion. Having resolved to pay forfeit for my own errors, I claim to have expiated them. This document is an explanation, not a confession.
I have not much time left wherein fittingly to shape my story so as to be just to all, myself included. If I am not mistaken, the officers of the law are in hot chase of me, but my statement shall not be made to an earthly judge. The words of a man about to die may not be well chosen; they should at least be true. I will tell of events as nearly as possible in their sequence of time. If I leave gaps through haste or forgetfulness you will, from your own knowledge of the facts, readily fill them up once you are in possession of the salient features.
Mensmore and his sister were the friends of my early years. We played together as children. Gwendoline Mensmore was two years younger than I, and I well remember making love to her at the age of eleven. Her mother died when she was quite a baby, and her father married again, so her step-brother Albert is her junior by four years. I taught him how to ride and swim and play cricket. My father’s place in Surrey—we did not acquire the Yorkshire property until the death of my grandfather—adjoined the estate General Mensmore occupied after his retirement from the army.
We children always called Gwendoline “Dick,” to avoid the difficulty of her long-sounding name, I suppose, and I honestly believe that our respective parents entertained the idea that a marriage between us was quite anatural thing. I went to school at Brighton, and Mensmore, being a somewhat precocious lad, joined the same school before I left. The headmaster, the Rev. Septimus Childe, was an old friend of my father’s, and when he wished to purchase a house at Putney—the terrible house which has figured in my dreams for the past three months as a Place of Skulls—my parents put pressure on my mother’s trustees to make the transaction an easy one. Of course, I knew it well. We regarded it in those early days as a town house, and always lived there during the season.
My father’s succession to the title and estates changed all that. We quitted Surrey for Yorkshire, and Wensley House, Portman Square, was a step upwards from the barrack-like building which so admirably suited Mr. Childe’s requirements.
When I was at Sandhurst General Mensmore got into difficulties. He quitted Surrey, and we gradually lost sight of him and his children. Afterwards I knew that he struggled on for a few years, placed his son in the army, and then came a complete collapse, ending in his death and the boy’s resignation of his commission. Of Gwendoline Mensmore’s whereabouts I knew nothing. Her memory never quitted me, but the new interests in my life dulled it. I imagined that I could laugh at a childish infatuation.
Then I married. I did so in obedience to my father’s wishes, and Alice was, I suppose, an ideal wife—far too ideal for a youngster of my lower intellectual plane. I know now that I never had any real affection for her. I was always somewhat awed by her loftier aspirations. My interests lay in racing, hunting, sports generally, and having what I defined as “a good time.” She, though an excellenthorsewoman, and in every sense an admirable hostess, thought Newmarket vulgar, treated Ascot as a social necessity, and turned up her eyebrows at me when I failed to see any utility in schemes for the reclamation of the submerged tenth.
Thus, though we never quarrelled, we gradually drifted apart. She knew she bored me if she asked me to inspect a model dwelling; I knew she hated the people who were the companions of a coaching tour or a week at Goodwood. Unfortunately, we were not blessed with offspring. Had it been otherwise, we might have found a common object of interest in our children.
Insensibly, we agreed to a separate existence. We lived together as friends rather than as husband and wife. We parted without regret and met without cordiality. Do not think we were unhappy. If our marriage was not bliss, it was at least comfortable. I think my wife was proud of my successes on the turf in a quiet kind of way, and I certainly was proud of her and of the high reputation she enjoyed among all classes of society. I even reverenced her for it, and I well knew that the enthusiastic receptions given us by our Yorkshire tenantry were not due to my efforts in their behalf, but to hers.
So we lived for nearly six years, and so we might have continued for sixty had I not met Gwendoline Mensmore again, under vastly changed circumstances. She was a chorus-girl in a variety theatre, earning a poor living under wretched conditions. I discovered the fact by mere chance.
I met her, and she told me her story—how she had married a man named Hillmer, whom her father had trusted, and whom she believed to be able to save them from ruin. Then the crash came. Her father died; her husband also broke down financially, took to drink andill-treated her; her brother was swallowed up somewhere in the Far West. She had no alternative but to live apart from her husband and try to support herself by the first career that suggests itself to a young, talented, and beautiful woman. But she was already weary of the stage and its distasteful surroundings. Her nature was too delicate for the rude friendships of the dressing-room. She shuddered at the thought of a mild carousal in a bar when the labors of the night were ended.
In a word, were I differently constituted, were she cast in more common mould, there was apparently ready to hand all the material for a vulgarliaison.
My respect for my wife, however, no less than Mrs. Hillmer’s fine disposition, saved both of us from folly. Yet I could not leave her exposed to the exigencies of a life in which she was rapidly becoming disillusioned. Away in the depths of my heart I knew that this sweet woman was my true mate, separated from me by adverse chance. There was nothing unfair to Alice in the thought. Were she questioned at any time, I suppose, she must have admitted that we were, in some respects, as ill-matched a couple as we were well-matched in others. You will say that I understood but little of feminine nature—nothing at all of my wife’s.
How best to help Mrs. Hillmer—that was the question. It was at this stage I made the initial mistake to which I can, too late, trace a host of succeeding misfortunes. I did not consult my wife. Trying now to analyze my reasons for this lamentable error of judgment I imagined that it arose from some absurd disinclination on my part to admit that I went to the stage-door of a theatre to inquire about the identity of a young woman whom I had recognized from the front of the house.
Don’t you see, my dear Bruce, it is almost as bad to fear your wife as to suspect her.
As, at that time, my own life was free from the slightest cloud of sorrow, I took keen interest in the troubles of Mrs. Hillmer, and I amused myself by playing, in her behalf, the part of a modern magician. I felt intuitively that she would resent any direct attempt on my part to place funds at her disposal, and I found a great deal of harmless fun in helping her with her consent, but without her actual knowledge.
I am, as you know, a rich man. At this hour I cannot sum up my available assets to within £100,000. Altogether I must be worth nearly a million sterling—yet my money cannot purchase me another day’s existence such as I would tolerate. Strange, is it not?
Well, the close of the year before last was a period of unexampled activity on the Stock Exchange, and, by way of a joke, I made some purchases on Mrs. Hillmer’s account, with the intention of pretending to pay myself out of the profits, while handing her such balances as might accrue. She is a shrewd woman, and quick at figures, so I might have experienced some difficulty in deceiving her. But the mad record of the past twelve months was in no wise belied by its inception. My purchases were those of a man inspired by the Goddess of Fortune. Stocks which I bought commenced suddenly to inflate. I astounded my brokers by the manner in which I ferreted out neglected bonds, mines which struck the mother lode next week, railway companies whose directors were even then secretly conspiring to water the stock.
Mrs. Hillmer became infected with the craze like myself. Twice we plunged heavily in American Rails and came out triumphantly. To end this part of my story,after five months of excitement I had contrived not only to swell my own deposits to a large extent, but I had secured on Mrs. Hillmer’s account a sufficient quantity of reliable stock to bring her in an average income of £1,500 per annum.
My greatest difficulty was to persuade Mrs. Hillmer to break off the habit of speculation once she had contracted it. I found that she perused the late editions of the evening papers with the same eagerness that a bookmaker looks for the starting prices of the day’s races. By the exercise of firmness and tact I was able to stop her from further dealings.
At the close of this period I need hardly say that two things had happened. Mrs. Hillmer and I were fast friends, with common objects and interests in life; and, concurrently, the ties between Alice and myself had loosened still more.
I also carelessly made another blunder. Under the pretence that secrecy was requisite for Stock Exchange transactions, I persuaded Mrs. Hillmer to allow me to pass under the name of Colonel Montgomery.
Mrs. Hillmer, of course, was now able to live in comparative luxury. I came to regard her house as an abode of rest. I was more at home in her drawing-room than in my own house. She often spoke to me of my wife, and obviously wished to see her, but here I did a cowardly thing. I represented my married existence as far less comfortable than it really was, and gradually Mrs. Hillmer ceased all allusion to Alice. She misunderstood our relations. I knew it, and did not explain. Not a very worthy proceeding for a man whose sense of honor is so keen that he prefers death to disgrace. But one can deceive no other so easily as oneself.
Occasionally, when opportunities offered, we went out together. It was foolish, you will say, and I agree with you. If folly were not pleasant it would not be so fashionable. But, to this hour, the relations between us are those only of close friendship. Never in my life have I addressed her by other than her married name, never have I touched her arm save by way of casual politeness.
I really think I flattered myself upon my superior virtues. I could see all the excellence but none of the stupidity of my behavior.
About this time, Mrs. Hillmer’s husband died. Thenceforth she became slightly reserved in manner. When life was a defiance she fought convention, but with safety came prudence. In fact, she told me that my frequent visits to her house would certainly be ill-construed if they became known. I was seeking for a pretext to introduce her to her own set in society, when a double catastrophe occurred.
My wife discovered, as she imagined, that I was clandestinely occupied with another woman, and Mrs. Hillmer’s brother returned from America.
It will best serve my hurried narrative if I relate events exactly as they happened, and not as they look in the light of subsequent knowledge.
Mensmore was naturally astounded to find his sister so well provided for, and gratefully accepted the help she gave him towards resuscitating his own fortunes. But it did not occur to either of us that he would take the ordinary view of the bond existing between us, and I shall never forget his rage when he found out that I was not known to his sister’s servants by my right name. It was an awkward position for all three. He was loth to allege that which we did not feel called upon to deny. But betweenhim and me there was a marked coolness, arising from suspicion on his part and resentment on mine, coupled, I must add, with an unquiet consciousness that his attitude was not wholly unreasonable.
Mrs. Hillmer and he discussed the matter several times. He urged that this compromising friendship should be discontinued. She—a determined woman when her mind was made up—fought the suggestion on the ground of unfairness, though, like myself, she would have been glad of any accident which would alter the position of affairs.
He interpreted her opposition to different motives. Finally, as his financial position was a dangerous one, as we afterwards learned, and he despaired of setting things straight in Raleigh Mansions—judging them from his own point of view—he resolved to leave England again.
And now I come to the night of November 6.
It was, as you will remember, a foggy and unpleasant day. I had some business in the city which detained me until darkness set in. I had not seen Mrs. Hillmer for two days, so I resolved to drive to Sloane Square—travelling by the Underground was intolerable in such weather—and have tea with her.
I did not know then that she had gone with her maid to Brighton—intending to return that evening. It was a sudden whim, she told me subsequently, and she had not even informed the other servants of her intention.
The pavements in the City were slimy with the dampness of the fog, and as an empty four-wheeler passed through Cornhill I hailed it, a most unusual choice on my part. The cabman, I noticed, was fairly elevated, but as these fellows often drive better when drunk than sober, I simply told him to be careful, and jumped in. I reachedSloane Square all right, and detained the cab for my intended journey home in time for dinner.
At the door of Mrs. Hillmer’s flat I met the cook and housemaid, both going out to do some shopping, probably, in the spare hour before it was time to prepare dinner.
They knew me well, of course, and admitted me to the drawing-room, telling me that Mrs. Hillmer was out, but would surely return very soon.
I had not been in the room a minute before the sharp double knock of a telegraph messenger brought the coachman, whom the girls left in charge of the house, to the door, and I startled the man by appearing in the hall, as he did not know of my presence.
“What is it, Simmonds?” I said, as I correctly guessed the message to be from Mrs. Hillmer.
“The missus is in Brighton, sir,” he answered. “She wants the carriage to meet her at Victoria at seven o’clock. It’s six now, and I ought to go around to the stables at once, but both these blessed girls have gone out. I’m in a fair fix.”
“No fix at all,” I said. “I want to see Mrs. Hillmer, so I will wait here until she arrives—or, at all events, till the servants come back.”
The man scratched his head, but he could think of no better plan, so he, too, went off, and I was left alone, for the first time in my life, in Mrs. Hillmer’s abode. It is the small events that govern our lives, Claude, not those that stand out prominently. The shopping expedition of a couple of servant girls, intent on securing a new cap or a few yards of calico, brought about my wife’s death, caused misery to many people, and ends, I sincerely hope, in my own speedy leap into oblivion.
I picked up a novel, “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” hitupon the terrible episode that culminates on Salisbury Plain, and was soon deeply interested, when another knock—this time an imperative summons long drawn out—caused me to hasten to the door.
I opened it, and in the dim light of the staircase landing, for a second did not recognize the lady who stood outside. Heaven help me, I was soon enlightened. My wife’s voice was bitterly contemptuous as she said:
“You don’t keep a footman, it appears, in your new establishment, Charles.”
Had I been suddenly struck blind, or paralyzed, I could not have been more dumfounded than by Alice’s unexpected appearance. A thorough scoundrel might, perhaps, have thought of the best thing to say. I blurted out the worst.
“What are you doinghere?” I stammered when my tongue recovered its use.
“No doubt you resent my appearance,” she cried, in a high, shrill tone I had never before heard from her, “but I shall not trouble you further. I merely came to confirm with my own eyes what my ears refused to entertain. Now, I am satisfied.”
She half turned with the intention of reaching the street, but, rendered desperate by the absurdity of my position, I gripped her arm and pulled her forcibly into the entrance-hall, closing and bolting the door behind us.
“You have seen too much not to see more,” I cried. “I will not allow you to ruin both our lives by a mere suspicion.”
She was in a furious temper, but her sense of propriety—for she did not know that the servants’ quarters were empty—restrained her until we had both entered the drawing-room.
Then she burst upon me with a torrent of words.
“A mere suspicion, indeed!” she said, and there was that in her voice which warned me that I had better try unarmed to control a tigress than a wife who deemed herself wronged; “these are prettysuspicionsthat surround you. A house tenanted by another woman where you are evidently master! A mistress who left the ranks of the ballet, or something of the sort, living in luxury on means supplied by you! A married woman who casts off her husband with her poverty, to take up a paramour and riches! Do you think you can blind my eyes further? I have the most convincing proofs of your infamy. Do not imagine that on any specious pretext I will condone your conduct. I despise you from the depths of my heart. Henceforth I will strive to forget your very existence.”
“Alice,” I said, and if she had not been blinded by passion she must have been affected by my earnestness, “will you listen to me?”
“Why should I? What respect have you shown to me that I should now seem even to accept your excuses?”
“I appeal to you not to do anything in anger. You have good reason to be enraged with me. I only ask you to suspend your final judgment. Hear what I have to say, take time for deliberation, for further inquiry, and then condemn me to any punishment you think fit.”
She did not answer me. Her eyes were roving round the room and taking stock of every indication of poor Mrs. Hillmer’s artistic aptitude. The place was eminently home-like, much more so than our elegant mansion in Portman Square, and my wife noted the fact with momentarily increasing bitterness. Yet I essayed my desperate task with failing nerve and terrible consciousness of a bad cause.
“Notwithstanding all that you have seen and heard,” I said, “I am not guilty of the crime you accuse me of. Mrs. Hillmer is an old friend of mine, whom I have helped from a state of misery to one of comfort and comparative happiness. She is as pure-minded in thought, as spotless in character, as you are yourself. You are doing her a grievous injustice by doubting the relations between her and me. If you only knew her—”
My wife laughed scornfully.
“Pray spare yourself, Charles. I have never seen you so interested before, but you lie badly, nevertheless.”
“I do not lie. Before heaven I am telling you the truth.”
“You are even willing to perjure yourself,Colonel Montgomery?”
My poor armor was ill-fitted for this stroke. I suppose I must have flinched before it, for she went on:
“You see I am well posted. My detectives have done their work well. Oh, Heaven, that I should ever have learned to love a vile wretch like you. I thought you respected me, at least. I tried hard to bend my own wishes to sympathy with yours, and I dreamt even of ultimate success. I knew you didn’t care much for me, but the devotion of a slave has at times been rewarded by the affection of her master. Fortunately, I am a slave bychoice. It only required experience to break my bonds, and you have supplied the experience.”
For the first time in my life did it dawn on me that my self-contained and haughty wife harbored other thoughts than a sentiment of respect for an indulgent and easily controlled husband. It was a shock to me, a deeper humiliation than she dreamed of. How could I expiate the past, wipe out this record of error and folly, but not of ill-doing, and live happily with her so long as Providence was pleased to spare us? While these things ran through my brain she suddenly turned on me.
“You fear exposure in the law courts! You dread your name figuring in a society scandal! How little you know me. You naturally compare me by your own contemptible standard. I left your house to-night determined never to return to it should I find you here, as in all probability, I was told, would be the case. I will go to my sister until I have determined upon my future life. You, at least, will never, by my desire, see or hear from me again. Thus far, I presume, I will fall in with your views.”
She would have passed me, but I held fast to the inside of the door. If once she got away from me I might never be able to set affairs even tolerably right. Better, I deemed, have one trying scene in the hope that she would calm down in the face of facts, than allow her to carry the quarrel to her relatives and strengthen her attitude by their natural support.
“Alice,” I said, “you shall not go.”
“How can you dare to detain me?” she shrieked, and the glint in her eyes showed how thoroughly her passions were aroused.
“You can separate from me if you will. I shall not venture to hinder you. But I swear you shall not do this rashact without knowledge. I tell you you must remain here. When you leave this house you do so in my company.”
“And why am I to be kept a prisoner?”
“Mrs. Hillmer will return in less than an hour. You have sought this meeting yourself. Very well. You shall have it. When your charges have been thoroughly thrashed out in the presence of Mrs. Hillmer and myself I will then accompany you where you will, and leave you under the protection of your sister, or any one else you choose, should you still persist in leaving me.”
Of course my action was unwise to the last degree. But remember, Claude, that during these last awful five minutes I had seen a side of my wife’s nature hidden from me six long years. And I was a man suddenly plunged into a raging sea, drifting helplessly I knew not whither. All that consumed me was a wild desire for such scant justice as I deserved. I had erred, but my faults were not those my wife alleged against me.
If she was angry before she was now absolutely uncontrollable.
“What?” she screamed. “Remain to meet your—your mistress? Never, while I have life!”
She flung herself upon me so suddenly that she tore me away from the door. She was a strong and athletic woman, and I suppose she expected some resistance, for she used such force as to drag me forward into the middle of the room, overturning a chair in the effort. I was so utterly taken by surprise that I yielded to her violence more completely than she expected.
She staggered, let go her hold, and fell heavily backwards, tripping over the fallen chair. I made a desperate attempt to save her, but only caught the end of a fur necklet, and it tore like a spider’s web.
Her body crashed against a Venetian fender, and her head came with awful force against a sort of support for the fire-irons that stood up a foot from the ground.
Then she rolled over, her eyes and face undergoing a ghastly change, and instantly became, as I thought, unconscious.
I knelt beside her, raising her head with my right hand, and brokenly besought her to speak to me, when I would at once do anything she demanded. But she gave no sign of animation. In a frenzy of despair, I forced myself to examine her injuries, and my heart nearly stopped beating when I discovered that a large piece of iron had been driven into her brain through the back of her head.
I knew in a moment that she was dead. Although I have not had much experience of that terrible epoch in the human being, I have seen far too much of death in animal life not to know that she who had been my honored and respected wife now lay before me a mere soulless entity—a symbol only of the splendid vital creature who, a minute earlier, was angrily protesting against the supposed faithlessness of her mate.
Looking back now upon the events of that fateful night, I marvel at the appalling coolness which came to my aid as soon as I realized the extent of the misfortune which had befallen both Alice and myself. I can fully understand what is meant by the callousness of a certain class of criminals, or the indifference to inevitable death betrayed by Eastern races. No sooner was I quite assured that my wife was dead—dead beyond hope or doubt—than I regained the use of my reasoning faculties in the most marvellously cold-blooded degree.
The actual difficulties of my position were enormous. I arraigned myself before the judge and jury, and sawclearly that every circumstance which contributed to Alice’s suspicions in the first instance were now magnified a hundred-fold by the manner and scene of her death.
Before me, in ghostly panorama, moved the dread crowd of witnesses against me, the degradation of my family, the bitter and vengeful feelings of my wife’s relatives, the suffering of poor, unconscious Mrs. Hillmer, the whole avalanche of horror and misery which this unfortunate accident had precipitated upon every person who claimed my relationship or friendship.
My mental attitude was quite altruistic. Could I have undone the past, I would cheerfully have undergone a painful and protracted death forthwith.
But no possible atonement on my part would restore Alice to life. I knew it was quite improbable that I should be convicted of murdering her, strong as the circumstantial testimony against me must be. The mere legal consequences did not, however, weigh with me for a second. From that awful hour I felt that I was doomed personally. My only thought was to seek oblivion, not only for myself, but for all whom Alice’s death might affect.
Reasoning in this way, I rapidly resolved to make a bold effort to conceal forever the time and place of the fatality. If I failed, I could tell the truth; if I succeeded, I might, at my own expense, save a vast amount of unnecessary sorrow.
The desperate expedient came to me of carrying off the body to the untenanted house at Putney where my old master had resided until his death, utilizing the four-wheeled cab with its half-drunken driver for the purpose.
If I reached Putney unhindered, I could dispose of my terrible burden easily, for the river flowed past the grounds, and every inch of the locality was known to me.
It occurred to me that perhaps the body might be foundand recognized. Our personal linen was never marked, by reason of the fact that our laundry work was done upon our Yorkshire estate, but as a temporary safeguard I resolved to take some different and less valuable outer clothes from Mrs. Hillmer’s residence.
Her maid was of a similar build to my wife, so I hastened to the girl’s room, and laid hands upon a soiled coat and skirt which were relegated to the recesses of the wardrobe.
I glanced at my watch as I came along the corridor. It was 6.15P.M.All the incidents I have related to you had happened within a quarter of an hour. Oh, heaven! it seemed longer than all the preceding years of my life.
Having resolved upon a line of conduct, I pursued it with thesang-froidand accuracy of one of the superior scoundrels delineated by Du Boisgobey. The door of the flat was locked. If the servants, hardly due yet, returned unexpectedly, I would send them off to Victoria Station on some imaginary errand of their mistress’s.
I knelt beside my poor wife’s body once more, and with great difficulty took off her costume and loosely fastened on the maid’s garments.
In her purse there were some bulky documents, which I afterwards discovered to be the reports furnished by a firm of private detectives, detailing all my movements with reference to Raleigh Mansions with surprising accuracy. But she had concealed her name. These men themselves only knew me as “Colonel Montgomery.”
How Alice first came to suspect me I can only guess. Perhaps my indifference, my absence from home at definite hours, a chance meeting in the street unknown to me—any of these may have supplied the initial cause, and led her to verify her doubts before taxing me with my supposed iniquity.
Indeed, her final act in coming alone to Mrs. Hillmer’s abode, revealed her fearless spirit and independent methods. She wanted no divorce court revelations. She would simply have spurned me as an unworthy and dishonorable wretch. Her small belongings I put in my pockets; the clothes I made into a parcel and stuffed temporarily beneath my overcoat.
Then I unlocked the door, and went down the few steps to the main entrance. There was no one about, the fog and sleet having cleared the street—a quiet thoroughfare at all times.
I took the risk of the maids coming back, and I ran to the square for my conveyance. The driver had been improving the occasion, and was more inebriated than before. He brought his cab to the door, and I knew, by the appearance of things, that no one had entered during my absence.
With some difficulty I lifted Alice’s body into my arms in as natural a position as possible, and carried her to the cab, leaving the door of the flat ajar. Luck still favored me. The cabman supposed that she, like himself, was intoxicated. A man came down the opposite side of the street, but he paid not the slightest heed to me, and, indeed, we were but dimly visible to each other.
Exerting all my strength unobtrusively, I placed my wife on the rear seat, and then calmly gave the driver instructions. He grumbled at the distance, but I told him I would pay him handsomely. Searching in my pockets and Alice’s purse, I could only find twelve shillings, so, although it was risky, to avoid a quarrel with the man, I determined to give him a five-pound note.
Thus far, all had gone well.
The notion possessed me that, to all intents and purposes,I had murdered my wife, and that I was now disposing of the visible signs of my guilt in the most approved manner of a daring criminal. Whether I did right or wrong I cannot, even at this late hour, decide. Should my death induce forgetfulness, I am still inclined to think that I acted for the best. My wife was dead; I was self-condemned. Why, then, allow others, wholly innocent, to be dragged into the vortex?
This was my line of thought. If you, reading this ghastly narrative, shudder at my deeds, I pray you nevertheless to weigh in the balance the good and ill that resulted from my actions.
At last we reached Putney, and drew up at the end of the disused lane which runs down by the side of the house to the river.
Here, again, the road was deserted. I lifted my wife out, carried her to the postern-gate, and returned to give the driver his note. The man was so amazed at the amount that he whipped up his horse instantly, fearing lest I should change my mind.
I was about to force open the old and rickety door into the garden when I remembered the drain-pipe jutting into the Thames—a place where, as a child, I often caused much alarm by surreptitious visits for the purpose of catching minnows. I quickly took off my coat and boots, turned up my trousers and shirt-sleeves, and examined the pipe with my hands.
It exactly suited my purpose. In half a minute I had firmly wedged my wife’s body beneath it. This was the most horrible portion of my task. The chill water, the desolation of the river bank, the mud and trailing weeds—all these things seemed so vile and loathsome whenplaced in contact with the mortal remains of my ill-fated Alice.
She had loved me. I believe I loved her, as I assuredly do now when her presence is but a memory, yet I was condemned to commit her to the contaminating beastliness of such surroundings. It was a small matter, in the face of death, but it has weighed on me since more than any other feature of that cruel night’s history.
Before leaving Putney I tied her clothes, hat, and furs to a couple of heavy stones and threw the parcel into deep water.
By train and cab I reached home but a few minutes late for dinner. It was not difficult for me to act my part with the servants, nor keep up the farce during the weary days that followed. My consciousness was so seared by what I had gone through that the mere make-believe of my position was a relief to me.
That night, in the privacy of my room, I recollected the broken fender, and feared lest the ironwork would supply a clue should the body be discovered, a thing I deemed practically impossible.
But, for Mrs. Hillmer’s sake, I took no risk. Next morning, before I saw you at Tattersall’s, I made arrangements for the whole contents of her drawing-room to be transferred to her brother’s flat, where, to my knowledge, the articles were needed.
Mrs. Hillmer had gone out early, so the thing was done in her absence. Her amazement was so great that she wired me, using as a signature the pet name of her childhood, and this was the first message you heard the groom refer to when he came a second time with the telegram from Richmond.
I wrote her a hurried note, explaining that I intendedthe transfer as a sop to her offended brother, but she had telegraphed again, and I had to go to see her, to learn that Mensmore resented the gift, and had gone off in a huff to Monte Carlo.
A little later, I took the supreme step of writing a farewell letter. Since my wife’s death I could not bear to meet any other woman. I communed with my poor Alice more when dead than when alive.
I do not think I have anything else to tell you. Step by step I watched you and the police tearing aside my barrier of deceit. At times I thought I would baffle you in the end. Were it not for my folly in bribing Jane Harding I think I must have succeeded.
That poor girl was the undoing of me in the first instance, and she now has brought me my final sentence, for she came to-day and told me, with tears, all that happened between the detective and herself. White, too, put in an appearance.
To-morrow, I suppose, he will bring a warrant, if you do not see him first and tell him the truth.
Do not misunderstand me. I am glad of this release. When you strove to arouse me from my despair I did, for a little while, cherish the hope that I might be able to devote my declining years to the work which Alice herself took an interest in. But the web of testimony woven round my old friend, Mensmore; the self-effacing spirit of his sister, who, to shield me, was willing to sacrifice herself; the possibility that I might involve these two, and perhaps others, in my own ruin—every circumstance conspired to overwhelm me.
I can endure no more, my dear Bruce. It is ended. The past is already a dream to me—the future void. My poor nature was not designed to withstand such astrain. The cord of existence has snapped, and I cannot bring myself to believe it will be mended again. In bidding you farewell I ask one thing. If you take a charitable view of my deeds, if you consider that my penalty is commensurate with my faults, then you might take my dead hand and say, “This was my friend. I pity him. May the spirit of his wife be merciful unto him should they meet in the regions beyond the grave.”
And so, for the last time, I sign myself
Charles Dyke.
Much as Bruce would have wished to inter his dead friend’s secret with his mortal remains in the tomb, it was impossible.
Sir Charles Dyke’s sacrifice must not be made in vain, and the strange chain of events encircled other actors in the drama too strongly to enable the barrister to adopt the course which would otherwise have commended itself to him. An early visit to Scotland Yard, where, in company with Mr. White, he interviewed the Deputy Commissioner, and a conference with the district coroner settled two important questions. The police were satisfied as to the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and the coroner agreed to keep the evidence as to the baronet’s sudden collapse strictly within the limits of the medical evidence.
A wholly unnecessary public scandal was thus avoided.
With Lady Dyke’s relatives his task required considerable tact. Without taking them fully into his confidence, he explained that Sir Charles had all along known the exact facts bearing upon her death and burial-place, but for family reasons he thought it best not to disclose his knowledge.
Bruce needed their co-operation in getting the home office to give the requisite permission for Lady Dyke’s reburial. The circumstance that the deceased baronet hadleft his estates to his wife’s nephew, joined to the important position Bruce occupied as one of the trustees and joint guardian, with the boy’s mother, of the young heir, smoothed over many difficulties.
After a harassing and anxious week Bruce had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing the remains of the unfortunate couple laid to rest in the stately gloom of the family vault.
The newspapers, of course, scented a mystery in the proceedings, but definite inquiry was barred in every direction. Even the exhumation order gave no clue to the reasons of the authorities for granting it, and in less than the proverbial nine days the incident was forgotten.
Sir Charles had made it a condition precedent to the succession that his heir should bear his name, and should live with his widowed mother on the Yorkshire estate, or in the town house, for a certain number of months in each year, until the boy was old enough to go to school.
The stipulation was intended to have the effect of more rapidly burying his own memory in oblivion. Bruce, too, was given a sum of £5,000, “to be expended in bequests as he thought fit.”
Claude understood his motive thoroughly. Jane Harding had been loyal to her master in her way, so he arranged that she should receive an annual income sufficient to secure her from want. Thompson, too, was provided for when the time came that he was too feeble for further employment at Portman Square, and Mr. White received a handsomedouceurfor his services.
Mrs. Hillmer did not even know of Sir Charles Dyke’s death until weeks had passed. Acting on Bruce’s advice her brother simply told her that everything had been settled, and that the authorities concurred with the barristerin the opinion that Lady Dyke was accidently killed.
When she had completely recovered from the shock of the belief that her loyal friend had murdered his wife, Mensmore one day told her the whole sad story. But he would allow no more weeping.
“It is time,” he said, “that the misery of this episode should cease. When the chief actor in the tragedy gave his life to end the suffering, we would but ill meet his wishes by allowing it to occupy our thoughts unduly in the future.”
Mensmore’s marriage with Phyllis Browne was now definitely fixed for the following autumn, so he carried his sister off with him on a hasty trip to Wyoming in company with Corbett—a journey required for the protection and development of their joint interests in that State.
Not only did their property turn out to be of great and lasting value, but during their absence the Springbok Mine began to boom. Even the cautious barrister one day found himself hesitating whether or not to sell at half over par, so excellent were the reports and so extensive the dividends from that auriferous locality.
The two young people were married, a scion of the house had become a lusty two-year-old, Mr. White had become Chief Inspector, and Miss Marie le Marchant had, by strenuous effort, risen to the dignity of double crown posters as a “dashing comedienne”—when Bruce’s memories of his lost friends were suddenly revived in an unexpected manner.
Mr. Sydney H. Corbett came to him with measured questionings and brooding thought stamped on his brows.
“It’s like this,” he said, when they were settled down to details, “I want to get married.”
“To whom?” inquired Claude, wondering at the savage tone in which the announcement was made.
“To Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh!”
“That’s what everybody yells the moment I mention it. She screams ‘Oh!’ and runs off with tears in her eyes. Her brother says ‘Oh!’ and looks uncomfortable, but refuses to discuss the proposition. Now you say ‘Oh!’ and gaze at me like an owl at the bare statement. What the dickens does it all mean, I want to know? I’m not worrying about what happened years ago. Mrs. Hillmer is just the sort of woman I require as a wife, and I’ll marry her yet if the whole British nation says ‘Oh!’ loud enough to be heard and answered by the U-nited States.”
“That’s the proper sort of spirit in which to set about the business.”
“Yes, sir; but I can’t get any forrarder. There’s a kind of rock below water which holds me up every time I shoot the rapids. She likes me well enough, I know. She calls me ‘Syd’ as slick as butter, and I call her ‘Gwen’; but there you are—if I want to go ahead a bit she pulls up and weeps. Now, why the—”
“Steady, Mr. Corbett. Women weep for many reasons. Do you know her history?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“But perhaps that is exactly what she does want. Remember that she has been married before, with somewhat bitter experience. She probably believes that a husband and wife should have no secrets from each other. Above all else, there should be no cloud between them as to bygone events. Mrs. Hillmer is highly sensitive. If she imagined you were under any misapprehension as to the circumstances under which Sir Charles and Lady Dykemet their deaths—do not forget that you were personally mixed up in the affair—she would neither entertain your proposal nor explain her motives. She would just do as you say—run away and cry.”
“Well, now, that beats everything,” said Corbett admiringly. “That never struck me before.”
“It is the probable explanation of her attitude, nevertheless.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“Write to her. Ask her permission to learn the facts from me. Tell her you believe you understand the reasons for her reticence, and that your only excuse for the request is that you want to go to her on an equal plane of absolute confidence. It seems to me—”
“That I’d better get quick and do it,” shouted Corbett, vanishing with the utmost celerity.
Bruce still occupied his old chambers in Victoria Street. He did not expect to see Corbett again for a couple of days. To the barrister’s utter amazement he returned within ten minutes.
“Fire away!” he cried excitedly. “You struck it first time. I just rang her up—”
“Rang her up?”
“Yes; she’s staying at the Savoy for a few days, so I telephoned from the Windsor. I could never fix up a letter in your words, you know. But switch me on the end of a wire and I know where I am.”
“What on earth did you say?”
“As soon as I got her in the box at the other end, I said, ‘Is that you, Gwen?’ ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I guess you know who’s talking?’ ‘Quite well,’ said she. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling Mr. Bruce I wanted to marry you, and that you wouldn’t even discuss theproposition. He said you probably wished me to know the whole story of Sir Charles Dyke, but felt kinder shy of telling me yourself. He will get it off his chest if you give him permission, and then I can come along in a hansom and fix things. What do you say?’ There was no answer, so I shouted, ‘Are you there?’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ faint-like. ‘Don’t let me hurry you,’ said I, ‘but if you agree straight-away I can catch Bruce at home, for I’ve just left him.’ With that she said, ‘Very well. You can see Mr. Bruce.’ And here I am.”
“Having accomplished the whole thing satisfactorily.”
“As how?”
“Don’t you see you have proposed to the lady and practically been accepted?”
“Jehosh! It does look something like it. Say, I’m off! This story of yours will keep until to-morrow.”
He would have gone, but Bruce jumped after him.
“Not so fast, Mr. Corbett. You must not sail into the Savoy flying a false flag. Kindly oblige me with your attention for the next half-hour.”
With that, he unlocked a safe and took from its recesses Sir Charles Dyke’s “confession.” He read the whole of its opening passages, explaining the relations between Mrs. Hillmer and her unfortunate but abiding friend.
The straightforward, honest sentences sounded strangely familiar at this distance of time. Bruce was glad of the opportunity of reading them aloud. It seemed a fitting thing that this testimony should come, as it were, from the tomb.
Corbett listened intently to the recital and to the barrister’s summary of the events that followed.
“Poor chap!” he said, when the sad tale had ended. “I hope you shook hands with him as he asked you to do?”
“I did. Would that my grasp had the power to reassure him of my heartfelt sympathy.”
For a little while they were silent.
“So,” said Corbett at last, “Gwen thought I would make the same mistake as the poor lady, and suspect her wrongfully.”
“No, not that. But naturally she wished the man whom she could trust as a husband to be wholly cognizant of events in which already he had participated slightly.”
“She was right. I like her all the better for it. But, tell me, is there any necessity for that wonderful document to be preserved?”
“Not the slightest. It has served its last use.”
“Then put it in the fire.”
Bruce did not hesitate a moment to comply with the wish. The flames devoured the record with avidity, and the two men watched the manuscript crumbling into nothingness. Then Corbett said:
“I must be off to the Savoy.”
“Good-bye, old chap,” said Bruce. “And good luck to you, too. I congratulate both Mrs. Hillmer and yourself.”
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.