Slightly on the mash, boys,Don't I do it flash, boys?Altho' my income's very small,--In fact, I guess its none at all--I'll never go to smash, boys,While I can cut a dash, boys;For I'm a chap, without a rapThat's--slightly on the mash.
Slightly on the mash, boys,Don't I do it flash, boys?Altho' my income's very small,--In fact, I guess its none at all--I'll never go to smash, boys,While I can cut a dash, boys;For I'm a chap, without a rapThat's--slightly on the mash.
Heavens! how they applauded her as she ogled and flirted, and winked, and smiled; to hear her was a liberal education--in slang.
"Gad, ain't she a jolly little thing," cried Pat, enthusiastically.
"Don't lose your heart, old chap," whispered Ronald, "remember Miss Lester."
"Begad, my heart's big enough for two," said Pat, with a humorous twinkle in his eye; "but ye needn't be afraid, Ronald, I have no diamonds to give away."
"No wonder the theatre elevates the masses," said Gerald to Sir Mark, who was listening to the song with rather a contemptuous smile; "what with burlesques, sensation dramas, aid shilling shockers, we'll soon attain a wonderful degree of civilization."
"Oh! you look at everything from a utilitarian point of view," replied Trevor, as the curtain fell on the first act, amid thunders of applause.
"I try to," began Foster, when Pat, who had caught the last word imperfectly, started up.
"Yes, I'm dry too," he said, gaily; "let us go and worship at the shrine of Bacchus."
"You go with Sir Mark," said Foster; "I want to speak with Monteith on business."
"Right you are!" replied Pat, "come Sir Mark, I'm as thirsty as a limekiln;" and Mr. Ryan went out of the box humming "Slightly on the mash," followed by Sir Mark Trevor, who was greatly amused with the young Irishman.
"Now then," said Ronald, eagerly drawing his chair close to that of Foster's, "what is it, good news?"
"I think so," replied the Barrister, leaning back in his chair, "I fancy I've found out Ventin's real name."
"The deuce you have! and what is it?"
"Leopold Verschoyle."
"Oh! the same initials."
"Exactly, so that accounts for all his linen being marked L. V."
"How did you find out?" asked Ronald.
"After you left me to-day, I went to see a detective called Julian Roper, who is omniscient and knows everyone and everything. I told him the whole affair, and he remembered something about the divorce; I told Mm the time it took place, about six years ago, and we looked up a file of the 'Times' and found out the case, which was not reported at full length, and the information we gained was very scanty. We found out, however, the name of Mrs. Verschoyle's solicitors, and went there--the managing clerk is a great friend of mine, and he let me have the briefs, and they correspond in every particular to the story Ventin, or rather Verschoyle, told you."
"Then, you think the identity of Ventin with Verschoyle is fully established?"
"To ourselves, yes--to others no; we have only the bare story told by the deceased to connect him with the case, and the argument against that, is that he might have read about the case in the papers."
"But what motive could he have for telling me such a story?"
"None that I can see--I am only putting a supposititious case; but if we are going in for this, we must get our evidence clear and strong."
"And what is to be done?"
"Come to my chambers to-morrow and see Julian Roper, then we can have a talk over things; we are working completely in the dark at present, but I've no doubt that by to-morrow we shall be in a position to make a start. You have no photograph of the deceased, have you?"
"No; and none were found among his papers, but if I saw one I could tell in a minute if it were Ventin; he was not an ordinary looking man by any means.
"Hum," said Foster, thoughtfully; "that might be managed; if I put Roper to work he'll soon find out a photograph, or," with a sudden idea, "better still, you might look yourself?"
"But where?"
"In some of the big photographers' studios. From what you say, Verschoyle, as we must now call him, must have been a fashionable man, and no one in his position would live thirteen years in London without having had his photograph taken."
"It's a slender chance."
"Very, but you must remember the whole case is a very delicate one."
At this moment Trevor and Pat came in, and immediately afterwards the curtain arose again on a beautiful scene representing Diana's home in the moon, so Foster and Ronald had no more opportunity of talking. Ronald paid no attention to the burlesque, but sat at the back of the box thinking over the whole affair, and the mystery of the case began to pique his curiosity. The other three, however, looked at the stage, admired the pretty girls, encored all the songs, and generally enjoyed themselves. When the curtain fell, Sir Mark invited the whole party to Rule's to supper, and thither they went.
The room upstairs was pretty nearly full, but they succeeded in getting a table to themselves, and ordered supper. The place looked very pretty, with the lights all shaded with green and red shades, and the soft glimmer of the candles shining on the diamonds and bare shoulders of the ladies. Plenty of laughter was going on, varied every now and then by the popping of champagne corks and the clatter of dishes.
"Ain't it a jolly place?" said Pat, looking around with delight, "nice way of winding up the night hullo; Ronald," he went on, "there's our Maltese friend."
And so it was, the Marchese, attired in irreproachable evening costume, was having supper with a young lady beautifully dressed, with a loud voice, and suspicious golden hair. He did not see the others, as he was too busy talking to his friend.
"This is his Italian exhibition, eh?" grinned Pat, who wouldn't have minded changing places with Vassalla.
"Well, perhaps he has been there," said Ronald, carelessly lifting his glass.
"He's brought something good away with him, at all events," replied Ryan; "she's a deuced pretty girl, far too good for Vassalla."
"What name?" asked Foster, with a start.
"Vassalla," interposed Ronald, looking quickly at him.
"Hum, that's odd!"
"What is?"
"I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," was the ambiguous reply.
Julian Roper was a peculiar character, and had a marked individuality of his own. He was a man of good family, and had been brought up at a public school, the intention of his father being to place him in the army. But Julian objected to his future life being thus mapped out for him, and determined to take his own view of things, and act as inclination led him. This was in the direction of detective work, and his greatest delight was in trying to unravel some mystery of real life which, for strangeness and complication, was far in advance of any work of fiction. But his father, being an aristocratic gentleman of the old school, naturally thought that detective work was not quite the thing for a gentleman, and he sternly commanded his son to dismiss the idea at once. What was the consequence? Julian left his father's house as a prodigal son, and went on the way his particular bias inclined him.
When will fathers learn the great truth that they cannot compel Nature, and that any strong individuality in man or woman is sure to assert itself sooner or later. Every child is not formed on the pattern of its parents, and therefore the parents cannot judge in every case as to the wisdom or fitness of their children's choice. Therefore, as long as the bias is in a right direction, and the children can earn their bread by honourable exercise of their talents, why should they not have free power to display those talents? Julian would have made but an indifferent soldier. As it was, he made an admirable detective, and was noted in London for the quickness of his perception, and the wisdom of his judgments. When the Countess of Darrington's diamonds were stolen, was it not Julian who traced the robbery to none other than the noble lady herself, who had pawned her jewels in order to pay her lover's debts?
When Michael Cantwell was charged with poisoning his wife, was it not Roper who discovered that the wife had poisoned herself, and left a letter laying the blame on her husband out of revenge? Why, these stories are the common talk of the detective force, and when Gerald Foster asked Roper to take the "Verschoyle Mystery" in hand, he knew he had got a good man, with the sagacity of a sleuth-hound, and the inflexible determination of a Richelieu.
And, indeed, when the case was explained to Julian by the barrister, that astute gentleman had eagerly agreed to do his best in discovering the culprit, for it was a mystery which delighted his soul. In fact, Roper was in love with these Chinese puzzles of social life, and nothing pleased him so much as spending months in adding, link by link, to a chain of evidence ending, in the complete clearing up of a curious case.
So the three gentlemen sat in Foster's office, and talked the case over. Ronald; eager and attentive to the views of the others; Foster, quiet, cynical, and keen; and Roper, calm and unfathomable, with his sharp, blue eyes bent on both, and his acute hearing taking in every word said.
It is no use sketching Roper's portrait, for like Proteus he had many shapes, and what the real Roper was no one knew. One day he would be a parson, the next, a sporting gentleman, the third day a tramp, and so on, until the noble fraternity of thieves actually began to suspect each other, so ubiquitous and clever was the famous detective.
"It's the strangest case I was ever in," said Mr. Roper, in his soft, low voice; "but one which it will be a pleasure to work at. At present we have the merest clue. Now, the great thing is to follow it up."
"First," said Foster, taking some papers from the drawer of his desk, "let us look at the divorce case, 'Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor.'"
"Oh, we know all about that!" said Ronald, impatiently.
"Not all of it," replied Gerald, smoothing the brief. "In the first place what do you think was the name of Mrs. Verschoyle?"
"Her maiden name?"
"Yes."
"I don't know."
"Then I will tell you. Cotoner!"
"What?"
Ronald sprang to his feet as pale as death.
"Yes," said Julian Roper, pulling out his pocket-book; "did not a lady of that name come on board the 'Neptune' at Malta?"
"My God!" cried Ronald, madly, "you don't mean to say----"
"We mean to say nothing," answered Foster, quietly; "except that the young lady you know is innocent of this crime."
Ronald gave a kind of strangled sob.
"It is sacrilege even to think of her in connection with it!" he said, in a stifled voice; his young face now haggard with pain. "Why, the Maltese wife was thirty, and Miss Cotoner is only twenty-six! Vassalla, her cousin, was with her all the time she was on board before the ship started. She had no motive for killing Verschoyle. She didn't even know him when I spoke about him."
"Not as Verschoyle, no," from Roper.
"Do you believe this?" asked Ronald, savagely.
"No, I don't," replied the detective, blandly; "but we may as well look at all sides of the question. I daresay Miss Cotoner is as innocent as you or I of this crime. Still, we must lose no opportunity of getting evidence."
"Stop a moment," said Ronald, calmly; "because the name of Mrs. Verschoyle was Cotoner I do not see that Miss Cotoner is implicated--there are, no doubt, more people than one of that name in Valletta."
"Of course there are," said Foster, quietly; "but Miss Cotoner's mother's maiden name was Vassalla."
"What?"
"Yes! that was the reason of my surprise, when I heard the name last night."
"That proves nothing."
"Only that her cousin's name is also Vassalla. So it proves, pretty clearly, that Miss Cotoner is Mrs. Verschoyle's sister."
Ronald groaned; for there flashed across him Verschoyle's remark that his wife had Arab blood in her veins, and that Miss Cotoner had made the same statement at Gibraltar; so it seemed true, after all.
"Go on," he said, huskily; "what is to be done now?"
"The best thing to be done," said Roper, quietly, "is to find out some one who knew Verschoyle."
"Yes, but how can you find out such a person?"
"I have done so!"
"Already?"
"Yes; he has a sister staying in London, and I know where to find her."
"Indeed."
"Yes; she is a Mrs. Taunton, and her husband is at artist; if we could see her and get her to show Mr. Monteith a portrait of the deceased, he would be able to recognise it."
"Of course I should," said Ronald, eagerly.
"Then," pursued Mr. Roper, without altering his voice; "there is another bit of evidence we must get hold of; the letter sent by the wife to Verschoyle, saying she would kill him."
"But how can we obtain that?"
"Well," shrugging his shoulders, "I am going on a forlorn hope. Mrs. Taunton may have it."
"Nonsense," said Foster, incredulously.
"I dare say it is--but still there is a chance that Verschoyle, when going to Australia, left some of his papers behind; a man does not care about dragging a lot of luggage all over the world, and it is very likely that Mrs. Taunton has some of her brother's things to look after, till he returned."
"And if this paper is among the things?"
"In that case," observed the detective; "we must get some writing of Mrs. Verschoyle, and compare the two; if they correspond, we shall have strong evidence that she is the criminal."
"And then?"
"Then I will go out to Malta, and see if I can ascertain her movements on the night in question. By the way," to Ronald, "what date was it you left Malta?"
"I think it was the 13th of June."
"Thank you," replied Roper, noting it in his pocket-book; "then I want to find out where she was on the 13th of June between seven and nine o'clock p.m."
"But instead of you going to Malta, why couldn't Monteith ask Miss Cotoner?"
"I won't," burst out Ronald, savagely; "what has she to do with it--she isn't the wife."
"No, but she might be the wife's sister."
Ronald thought a moment.
"Yes, she might," he answered, pale as death; "but all the same, you haven't proved that yet, and I won't insult her by asking her."
Roper sighed as he looked at this stubborn young man; it was no good trying to get assistance from him, so he would have to do the best he could.
"Very well," he said, calmly; "we won't ask Miss Cotoner anything. The first thing to be done is to establish the identity of Ventin with Verschoyle, and then I will go to Malta and see about Mrs. Verschoyle."
"But, how are we to find Mrs. Taunton?" asked Foster.
"There is a meeting of the 'Society for the Improvement of Art,' to-night," said Roper, "and she is sure to be there with her husband."
"Oh, I've got tickets," said Gerald; "so myself and Monteith will go, and we'll soon find out all about her and her brother; will you come, Monteith?"
"No," doggedly.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to go on with this case any more."
"I can understand your reason," said Roper; "you think Miss Cotoner may be mixed up in it."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do, sir--apologising for the contradiction; but if you want to find out who killed Verschoyle, you had better go on with the case; it will be more satisfactory to yourself and"--hesitating--"Miss Cotoner."
"She has nothing to do with it."
"Of course not," said Roper, soothingly; "we've only the similarity of name to go by. I think I would go to this meeting to-night sir, if I were you."
Ronald thought a moment----"Very well, I will," he said resignedly; and then Roper arose to take his leave.
"I'll look in to-morrow, and see what information you've obtained," he said. "Good-day, Mr. Foster--good-day, Mr. Monteith."
"Good-day," replied Ronald, not taking his eyes off the table.
Julian and Foster went out.
"Is he in love with her?" asked the detective.
"He is!"
"I thought so; this case will be harder than you or I think."
"But you don't suppose Miss Cotoner had anything to do with it?"
"No; but I think she's the sister of the woman who committed the crime."
"The Society for the Improvement of Art" was one of the favourite fads of the day, and will no doubt hold its own till some newer "fad" comes to the front, and then it will fall to pieces. It was organized by three or four enthusiasts, who said there was a great deal of latent artistic talent in England which needed development, and they proposed to let everybody, who thought he or she could draw, have an exhibition once a year. Every picture sent in was hung on the walls of their saloon, and some queer things figured there. Unappreciated geniuses with the talents, as they thought, of Michael Angelo, sent in hideous productions, which were enough to send a painter of any knowledge whatever crazy, such was the crudity of the drawing. Some of the pictures were done in a firm, precise manner, as if they were the productions of very young people, and finished by the Governess; others had a dashing, sketchy appearance, as if they had been done in half an-hour, a not unlikely thing; but here and there were some really pretty sketches that were admired. Yet the whole effect of these walls, disfigured in such a manner, was depressing in the extreme. The fact was, the Society for the Improvement of Art was a collection of amiable idiots, who made their mad project an excuse for having evenings when everybody who was anybody went.
On this evening, therefore, the rooms were crowded with all sorts of queer people; some who thought themselves clever, but were not, and tried to make up for their lack of brains by assuming extraordinary costumes; others, who were dressed in the height of fashion only came because everyone else was there; and critics, actors, artists, and literary men all jostled one another in the crowd, and laughed to scorn the feeble efforts of the Society to find hidden talent. There was weak tea, and thin bread-and-butter, and everybody, when they were not looking at the pictures--which was seldom--talked scandal and abused their friends, so it was all very delightful and amusing.
At least Monteith found it so, as he leaned against the wall, and listened to Foster's cynical comments on all who passed along, mostly friends of his own; but, after all, what is the use of having friends if one can't abuse them?
"You see that bald-headed old chap there?" said Signor Asmodeus Foster, who was about to unroof his friends' houses for the benefit of the Australian, "the one with the gaunt female beside him--she was his daughter's governess, and married him by force; she bullies the life out of him, and if he but look at another woman--a thing, by the way, the old scamp is very fond of doing--he catches it when he gets home. That pretty little woman in white is Lady Aspasia, who was not as good as she might be--once--but now she's married and gives good dinners, so Society doesn't rake up her little failures in the past. We are a very generous people when there's money in the question. That young dandy, with the simper and the eye-glass, is Bertie Hardup, who a year ago had not a shilling--his face was his fortune, and a mighty nice income it brought him, for he married Miss McNab, the Scotch heiress, who has red hair and a long pedigree; he doesn't care a fig about her, and keeps Musidora, of the Frivolity, out of McNab's money. By Jove, my dear fellow, all these people have their skeletons, and if they could only become visible, you'd see every one of them attended by a bony figure like those in the Dance of Death."
"Rather a ghastly assemblage," said Ronald, absently.
"Not at all," replied his companion; "bless you, we love our skeletons, and, in the middle of the night, take them out and discuss our private affairs with them; then we lock them up in the little dark cupboards again, and only hear the faint rattle of their bones during the day."
Ronald laughed.
"You are cynical!"
"The fault of the world my dear boy. I would like to go through life keeping all my youthful illusions, but the world won t let me--it has destroyed all my dreams of honour and honesty one by one till--pouf!--it has made me as disbelieving as St. Thomas."
"What strange people are here," said Ronald, looking at the restless crowd.
"Yes!--the dresses are eccentric, are they not?--but that is part of our trade in London; if one cannot be famous--well, the greatest idiot can make himself conspicuous. Let us walk through the rooms to find Mrs. Taunton, or we'll miss her."
Ronald, nothing loth, went off with his Mentor, and could not help laughing at the curiously dressed people he saw. One lady was arrayed in black velvet, trimmed with silver, and looked like a first-class coffin; while another in white, with large red rosettes down the front of her dress, had such square shoulders that she resembled nothing so much as a chest of drawers. Here and there were some pretty girls, but the general impression Ronald had was disappointment at the appearance of the ladies.
"They're so deucedly ugly," he said in disgust.
"Yes, they can't make their faces up properly," observed Foster, putting on his eye-glass; "they're all like very badly painted pictures--but that's a pretty woman over there."
"Yes, by gad, she is," replied Ronald critically; "who is she?"
"The lady we are in search of--Mrs. Taunton--come, and I'll introduce you to her."
So Foster, followed by Ronald, pushed his way through the crowd towards Mrs. Taunton, who was standing with her husband, a tall round-shouldered man to whom she was talking in a vivacious manner. A very charming lady she was--small, fair-haired, and wonderfully bright and quick in her conversation and actions. Her face was wreathed with smiles, but during a pause in the conversation it was in repose for a moment, and then Ronald detected a shade of latent melancholy which reminded him somewhat of the sombre expression of his dead friend's face.
"How do you do, Mrs. Taunton?" said Foster, when he reached her side; "I have not seen you for at least--let me see--a hundred years!"
"If that is the case," replied the little lady, laughing, "you must have the gift of immortality, for you don't look a day older."
"Nor you a minute," said Foster, with a bow. "Permit me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Monteith; he is come from the wilds of Australia to see if civilization is an improvement on savagery."
"Welcome to London, Mr. Monteith," said Mrs. Taunton, putting out her hand with a sunny smile; "I hope we shall be able to make your stay pleasant."
"I'm sure of that," answered Ronald, heartily, "in such company it would be foolish not to enjoy myself."
"What! they know how to make compliments in Australia?"
"When they have a worthy object," with a bow.
"Another! really, Mr. Monteith, you are a Sir Charles Grandison.'
"I hope not," broke in Foster, who had been talking to Mr. Taunton; "he was a prig,--wouldn't be tolerated now-a-days; but then," shrugging his shoulders, "how could you expect a linen-draper to conceive a gentleman? It would be easier to make a silk purse out a sow's ear."
"Poor Richardson," said the lady, with an amused look, "how severe you are on him. Mr. Monteith, pardon my rudeness; let me introduce to you my husband."
The artist bowed, and shook Ronald by the hand, but said nothing. He was a man of few words, and so left his wife to do most of the talking--a task to which she was fully equal.
"Now then," said Mrs. Taunton, when the introduction had been effected, "Mr. Foster, you can talk art, law, and scandal to my husband, while Mr. Monteith escorts me through the room in order to improve his mind."
Ronald, of course, was delighted, and they strolled off, leaving the lawyer in deep conversation with the artist over a divorce case which was then being publishedin extensoin the newspapers.
What charming conversationalists some women are! They are as happy in their talk as in their letter-writing; and Mrs. Taunton was a most delightful cicerone; with all Foster's knowledge and wit, but without his cynicism. Cynicism, like garlic, should only be used in moderation, and Ronald found Mrs. Taunton's bright, rapid talk rather a relief after the pessimistic views of his friend, the lawyer. The lady seemed to know everyone--stopped every now and then to talk to people, and, after leaving them, kept up a running fire of conversation about their oddities, which amused the Australian very much.
"How you do seize on people's weak points!" he said, laughing.
"Of course," she replied, "I'm a woman, and have the instinct of the sex."
"Likewise the charms."
"Mr. Monteith, I cannot allow you to pay me any more compliments to-night; but you may call to-morrow at four, if you like, and I shall be prepared for your gallantry."
"I should like it above all things," he said, seriously.
"Why, how grave your face is! I shall have to call you the knight of the rueful countenance. Is anything the matter?"
"I don't know; there might be."
"What an ambiguous reply!" she said, glancing at him curiously. "Are you a spiritualist? Have you had an intimation that all is not right in the other worlds?"
Her flippancy displeased him, knowing the importance of the matter in question.
"Mrs. Taunton," he said, gravely, looking down at the little figure from his tall height, "I was introduced to you for a purpose, and I am going to take a liberty."
Mrs. Taunton looked a little frightened, and wondered if her good-looking cavalier were mad. He guessed her thoughts.
"Don't be afraid, I am in my senses,"
"Then he must be in love with me," thought Mrs. Taunton, in dismay at this eccentric young man; but his next remark caused her to alter her mind.
"You have a brother?" he said, abruptly.
"Yes," she replied, rather puzzled, "I have one brother. I think he is out in Australia. Why," a sudden light breaking in on her, "have you met him?"
"I think so."
"What is he doing?" she asked, eagerly.
Ronald parried the question.
"I don't know," he replied; "but I'll tell you all about him to-morrow."
"Is he ill, or in trouble?" she said, quickly. "Please tell me, because I am very--very fond of him."
"Mrs. Taunton," he said, quietly, "I am come here for a purpose."
"Which concerns my brother?"
"Yes. Believe me, I do not ask out of idle curiosity, but will you answer my questions?"
Mrs. Taunton thought a moment.
"It's all so curious," she said, nervously, "but Mr. Foster, who introduced you, is an old friend of mine,"--after a pause, "yes, I will answer your questions."
He led her to a seat and took one beside her, then began to talk.
"Your brother's name is Leopold Verschoyle?"
"Yes."
"He was married in Malta seven years ago?"
"He was."
"And a year afterwards separated from his wife?"
"He did."
"And then?" hesitatingly.
"Oh, do not be afraid," she said, coldly; "he fell in love with another woman, and there was a divorce case."
"Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor."
"You seem to know all about it," replied the lady, a little astonished. "He went to Australia with Miss Macgregor, and since then I have heard nothing about him. What became of them?"
"He married her."
"Oh!" drawing down the corners of her mouth, "then she is his wife now I presume?"
"No; she is dead!"
"Dead! Then my brother is coming back to England?"
"That I cannot tell you till I call on you, to-morrow."
"What do you want me to do?"
"To show me your brother's portrait--have you one?"
"Yes; only one. Taken just before he left for Malta."
"Good. Then I will call to-morrow at four o'clock."
"And then?" rising and taking Monteith's arm.
"I will tell you everything," he replied.
"About what?"
"That depends on--to-morrow."
"You are a most mysterious man," said Mrs. Taunton, in a vexed tone, as he took her back to her husband; "you arouse my curiosity, and then refuse to gratify it--but tell me at least one thing--is my brother well?"
Ronald hesitated. He dare not tell her that her brother--if Ventin indeed, were her brother--was dead so he equivocated.
"I think so," he replied, hurriedly.
"Then I will wait for your promised revelation to-morrow;" and, with a smile, she left him, and went back to her husband, who was still talking to Foster.
"Take me home, George," said Mrs. Taunton, touching her husband's arm; "I am tired."
"Yes, you look pale, my dear," he answered, giving her his arm; "we'd better go at once."
Foster glanced keenly at her and then at Ronald, who, however, shook his head.
"Good night, Mr. Foster," said Mrs. Taunton, giving him her hand; "you are to call on me to-morrow at four, with Mr. Monteith?"
"I will not fail," he replied, with a smile; and taking her husband's arm she moved away, and was soon lost among the crowd.
When she disappeared, Gerald turned to the Australian, quickly.
"Well?"
"I asked her about her brother," said Monteith, quietly; "and her story corresponds in every particular with that of Ventin."
"Then you think Verschoyle is Ventin?"
"Yes, I think so; but I will be certain to-morrow."
"Oh! in what way?"
"Mrs. Taunton is going to show me her brother's portrait."
"And then?"
"Well," observed Monteith, "if it is Ventin as I suspect, I think it will be the beginning of the end."
What queer old places there are in Brocade Street--why, the very name is suggestive of the stately times of the early Georges, and indeed, Brocade Street was a fashionable locality even earlier, when Queen Anne was ruling, and Marlborough was winning his brilliant victories, and Duchess Sarah was alternately bullying and coaxing her weak-minded mistress. A dark, narrow street with tall houses of red brick on either side, innumerable windows, and heavy-looking doors which had often opened to let out Belinda to her sedan-chair, or Sir Plume on the way to Wills, to have a chat with Sterne and Addison.
Fancy Swift, with his dark, lowering face, walking down this street with his thoughts fixed upon a possible bishopric, or Dick Steele, swaggering along in his rich dress, stopping to take off his hat to Lady Betty Modish, who looked archly at him through the window. And then, at night, when all the streets were in darkness, save for the link boys, poor lost Richard Savage wandering about in company with Samuel Johnson even at that early age burly and contradictory. Ah, yes; great spirits were abroad in those stirring times, and Brocade Street could tell a few stories of interest, had it a voice; but now the tide of fashion had rolled westward, and the street was left silent and lonely to think over its past glories.
All those famous old houses, with their broad, oak staircases and large, stately apartments, were now used as lodging-houses for decayed gentlefolk; and city clerks found shelter in the rooms which had once re-echoed to the brilliant epigrams of Swift, or the smooth utterances of Joseph Addison.
There were also some artists to be found in the street, for they loved it for its old associations and the dead-world flavour which haunted all the houses?-a perfume of past memories of the beaux and belles of Good Queen Anne's gay Court.
Among these was Mr. Taunton, who occupied a tall, gaunt, grim-looking mansion at the upper end, and, though his merry little wife tried hard to persuade him to move to a more civilized locality, he steadily refused to exchange the dead glories of Brocade Street for the fashionable quarters of Kensington. So, Mrs. Taunton did the best she could, and beautified the quaint, oak-panelled rooms with rich tapestries, curious old china, and bizarre-looking brasses.
She sat now in her drawing-room waiting for Mr. Monteith and his friend, and wondering what could be the reason of their visit. The soft light of the day somewhat subdued by the long curtains which draped the windows, stole into the room and all the picturesque objects were seen in a kind of semi-twilight. Here, a tall column with the bust of a laughing Menade in marble, looking white and still against a background of crimson plush, and there, a landscape picture on an easel with some silken drapery flung carelessly over it. Plenty of easy chairs, spindle-legged tables of Chippendale, cupboards of priceless china, great jars from the Flowery Land which could have hidden the Forty Thieves, and innumerable mirrors all over the walls interspersed with pictures both in oil and watercolours.
Mrs. Taunton herself, in a tea-gown of some soft, clinging material, was flitting about here and there like a restless butterfly--now arranging some flowers with deft hands, and again touching the dainty tea-service of Sèvres china which stood at the end of the room.
"I do wish those men would be punctual," said Mrs. Taunton, for the tenth time, as she stood at one of the long windows and looked down the dismal street; "I feel so miserable being alone."
Her husband was up in his studio painting, so she sat down on the window seat, and leaning her head on her hand began to soliloquize.
"I wonder what that Mr. Monteith wants to tell me," she said to herself; "he must have some news of Leopold; I'm sure I hope so; it is years since I heard from him; and then he left such a lot of things with me; all those jewels which belonged to mother. I hope there's nothing wrong, but I dare say it's all right; Leopold could always look after himself. Ah!" as the rattle of wheels was heard, "there they are," and she left the window quickly, as a hansom drove up to the door.
In a few moments Mr. Monteith and Mr. Foster were announced, and Mrs. Taunton received them with a face wreathed in smiles far different from the melancholy countenance which had gazed out of the window a few moments since. A wonderfully pretty woman she looked in her pale, yellow tea-gown as she advanced to greet the young men with the polished charm of a thorough woman of the world.
"It's rather chilly to-day," observed Monteith, when they were all comfortably seated, and Mrs. Taunton was busy at the tea-table.
"Chilly!" echoed Mrs. Taunton. "Oh! you don't know what cold weather is in London. Wait till you see a fog, a nice, thick, yellow fog, with the sun like a ball of red fire glaring thro' it, then you'll say its chilly."
"Ugh," said the Australian, with a shudder, "your description is suggestive of the charnel-house."
"Monteith longs for the blue skies of Australia," said Foster, with a laugh, as he received his cup of tea from his hostess.
"So would you," retorted Ronald, "if you had once been there. Life in Australia is like the prairie fever, one is always longing to be back again."
"Perhaps that's the reason my brother stops out there so persistently?" said Mrs. Taunton, leaning back in her chair.
The two gentlemen suddenly became grave, whereat the lady sat up again.
"What do you mean by all this mystery," she asked impetuously; "last night Mr. Monteith roused my curiosity to the highest pitch about my brother, and then refused to gratify it. Is anything wrong? Has Leopold run away with another man's wife, or found a gold mine, or committed a murder, or what?"
She tried to speak lightly, but there was a ring of anxiety in her tones.
"You promised to show me his portrait," said Monteith, suddenly looking up.
Mrs. Taunton arose without a word, and going to a distant table, took up a photograph framed in purple plush, which she placed in Monteith's hands.
"Taken seven years ago," she said.
Monteith looked at the dark, handsome face of the portrait with a vague expression of sadness in his eyes, and handed it to Foster with a sigh:--
"It is Lionel Ventin."
"Ah!" said Foster, with a long breath, as he looked at it, "I thought as much."
"What do you mean by calling my brother Lionel Ventin?" asked Mrs. Taunton quickly, clasping her hands; "that is--that is the name of the man that was--that was--murdered!" The last word came out almost in a shriek as she sprang to her feet.
Monteith nodded sadly.
"Yes," he replied, gravely, "Leopold Verschoyle and Lionel Ventin are the same."
"Then he--my brother is the man who was murdered on board the Neptune?" she asked, in a whisper.
Foster arose in alarm.
"Let me get you some water," he said, advancing towards her, but she waved him back.
"Was my brother the man?"
Monteith bowed.
"And you gave evidence at the inquest?"
He bowed again.
Mrs. Taunton braced herself up with a mighty effort, her charming face looking pale, and drawn with horror. She walked away a few steps, then suddenly wheeled round on the two men, who were watching her silently:--
"Who killed him?"
"That is what we intend to find out," said Monteith, slowly, "and you must assist us."
Mrs. Taunton sat down, and, clasping her hands over her knee, sat staring at the Australian with a rigid face. The shadows were falling fast in the street outside, and through the gathering gloom of the room the two men could see the white, set face of this woman looking like that of a lost spirit.
"Do you know what grief is?" she asked, in a dull, hard voice; "do you know what it is to go about with a smile on your lips, and a broken heart? No, of course you don't--you are men; and cannot feel pain as a woman can. I have lost two children, and it nearly broke my heart--my husband is wrapped up in his work, and does not care for me except as a useful ornament to his table--the only two children I had died when I most wanted their love and affection, and I thought my heart would break--perhaps it did--but--I lived--yes--I went about with a smiling face, and talked gaily with my friends--they said I was heartless. God! If they only knew the nights of agony that succeeded to days of apparent joy--but I lived--yes, and I still go about amusing myself--a maelstrom above, but a hell below. This is another blow. I loved my brother dearly, though I had not seen him for years, and now he is dead--murdered--by whom?--you do not know--I do!"
"What do you mean?" asked Monteith, starting to his feet.
She sprang forward and caught his wrist.
"Did he not tell you the story of his life--how he was ruined by a woman?"
"Elsie Macgregor?"
"No, she tried to save him; it is not her I mean--you know--his wife--his Maltese wife, Bianca Cotoner."
Monteith fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Heavens, was it all true then? was the girl he loved the sister of a murderess? And yet, though it looked so black against her, where was the proof? He looked up suddenly.
"There is no proof," he began.
"Proof!" she flashed out, quickly; "you want proof--I can supply it." And she ran quickly out of the room.
"What does she mean?" asked Monteith.
"I know," said Foster, sagaciously; "she has gone for that paper."
"Impossible!"
"I don't see what other proof she can have," said the barrister, shrugging his shoulders.
"It's impossible--it's impossible, I tell you," cried Monteith, vehemently; "his wife might have killed him, but she was not a Miss Cotoner."
"The evidence both of the Divorce Court and Mrs. Taunton says she was."
"But she cannot be the sister of Carmela."
"I cannot say there may be more Cotoner families than one in Malta; but still, Vassalla's name being mixed up in it seems to point out that she might be."
"I won't believe it till I hear the truth from her own lips."
"You will ask her, then?"
"No!"
"That's a mistake; you'll only torture yourself till you get a satisfactory explanation."
Monteith flung himself back in his chair with a low moan, his bright young face looking pinched and haggard in the dim light, and at this moment Mrs. Taunton entered the room, carrying a desk in her hands.
"This is my brother's," she said, placing it on a table, and turning to the young men. "He sent it to me about a year ago, and asked me to keep it for him, as he was going to South America, and did not want to take it with him. He also sent the key, and I looked over the contents; they are principally letters."
She flung back the lid of the box, and there were bundles of letters, yellow with age, tied up with red tape. There was also a portrait--a faded old portrait of a girl's face.
"Is this the Maltese wife?" asked Foster, taking it up, whereon Monteith sprang to his feet, and also looked to see if it resembled Carmela.
Mrs. Taunton made a gesture of dissent.
"It is Elsie Macgregor."
The young man looked curiously at that face--a quiet, patient face, with love and truth shining through the pure eyes--the face of the woman that had ruined her life to save Leopold Verschoyle from himself. Foster laid it reverently down again amongst the old letters.
"She was a good woman," he said, softly, and cynic as he was, he meant it.
"But the proof--the proof!" said Monteith, impatiently.
Mrs. Taunton rapidly turned over the bundles of letters, and drew from one packet a square slip of yellowish paper, which she handed to Monteith in silence. He took it eagerly, and read the contents--only three lines:
"You have treated me shamefully, and I will never forgive you for it. We women of the South can revenge ourselves, and your life will pay the penalty of your falseness."
There was no signature or date to this extraordinary document, and the two men wondered at it for a minute, then Foster looked up suddenly.
"How do you know this is from the wife?" he asked, sharply.
Mrs. Taunton pointed to the letters.
"Of course, I have not read them," she said, coldly; "but you will see the writing on the envelopes corresponds with that in the letter."
And so it did, in every particular; so Monteith and Foster both came to the conclusion that this wife must have killed Verschoyle, seeing that she had threatened him thus, and the crime was committed at Malta, where she lived--the proofs were so clear.
"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Taunton, impatiently.
"I have a detective in my employment, called Julian Roper," said Monteith, slowly; "and if you give me this paper, I will show it to him--then he must go out to Valletta--find out where Mrs. Verschoyle lives, and ascertain her movements on the night the crime was committed."
"And he must also get some of her writing, to see if it corresponds with this," said Foster, pointing to the paper.
"When will he start?" asked Mrs. Taunton, quickly.
"To-morrow, by a P. and O. steamer," said Monteith; "and we will hear all particulars from him in a fortnight."
"Very well," replied Mrs. Taunton, quietly; "you can take the paper, and hunt that woman down, for she and none other killed my poor brother--good-bye, gentlemen, I am going to lie down;" and without another word, she left the room, and retired to her bedroom, where her overtaxed nerves gave way, and she broke down utterly.
"She is a plucky woman, that," said Foster, as they left the house, and drove away; "what do you think of it all?"
"I think," said Monteith, thoughtfully, "that the case looks very black against the former Mrs. Verschoyle, but what I want to be certain of is her relationship to Carmela."
"You can find out by asking her."
"No, I will not," said the Australian, doggedly; "but Roper can find out in Valletta, and if it turn out to be so, I'll speak to Carmela about the crime, and see what she knows."
"Suppose she prove the sister, Mrs. Verschoyle, a murderess, will you give up Carmela?"
"No," he answered, curtly. "I don't see why the sins of the father should be visited on the children, nor that one woman should be punished for the crime of another."