Chapter Twenty Two
The Mystery of a Night’s Adventure
“Exposure means to me a fate worse than death,” she wrote. What could it mean?
Mrs Percival divined by my face the gravity of the communication, and, rising quickly to her feet, she placed her hand tenderly upon my shoulder, asking —
“What is it, Mr Greenwood? May I not know?”
For answer I handed her the note. She read it through quickly, then gave vent to a loud cry of dismay, realising that Burton Blair’s daughter had actually fled. That she held the man Dawson in fear was plain. She dreaded that her own secret, whatever it was, must now be exposed, and had, it seemed, fled rather than again face me. But why? What could her secret possibly be that she was so ashamed that she was bent upon hiding herself?
Mrs Percival summoned the coachman, Crump, who had driven his young mistress to Euston, and questioned him.
“Miss Mabel ordered the coupé just before eleven, ma’am,” the man said, saluting. “She took her crocodile dressing-bag with her, but last night she sent away a big trunk by Carter Patterson – full of old clothing, so she told her maid. I drove her to Euston Station where she alighted and went into the booking-hall. She kept me waiting about five minutes, when she brought a porter who took her bag, and she then gave me the letter addressed to Mr Greenwood to give to you. I drove home then, ma’am.”
“She went to the North, evidently,” I remarked when Crump had left and the door had closed behind him. “It looks as though her flight was premeditated. She sent away her things last night.”
I was thinking of that arrogant young stable worker, Hales, and wondering if his renewed threats had really caused her to keep another tryst with him. If so, it was exceedingly dangerous.
“We must find her,” said Mrs Percival, resolutely. “Ah!” she sighed, “I really don’t know what will happen, for the house is now in possession of this odious man Dawson and his daughter, and the man is a most uncouth, ill-bred fellow. He addresses the servants with an easy familiarity, just as though they were his equals; and just now, he actually complimented one of the housemaids upon her good looks! Terrible, Mr Greenwood, terrible,” exclaimed the widow, greatly shocked. “Most disgraceful show of ill-breeding! I certainly cannot remain here now Mabel has thought fit to leave, without even consulting me. Lady Rainham called this afternoon, but of course I had to be not at home. What can I tell people in these distressing circumstances?”
I saw how scandalised was the estimable old chaperone, for she was nothing if not a straightforward widow, whose very life depended upon rigorous etiquette and the traditions of her honourable family. Cordial and affable to her equals, yet she was most frigid and unbending to all inferiors, cultivating a habit of staring at them through her square eyeglass rimmed with gold, and surveying them as though they were surprising creatures of a different flesh and blood. It was this latter idiosyncrasy which always annoyed Mabel, who held the very womanly creed that one should be kind and pleasant to inferiors and cold only to enemies. Nevertheless, under Mrs Percival’s protective wing and active tuition, Mabel herself had gone into the best circle of society whose doors are ever open to the daughter of the millionaire, and had established a reputation as one of the most charming débutantes of her season.
How society has altered in these past ten years! Nowadays, the golden key is the open sesame of the doors of the bluest blood in England.
The old exclusive circles are no longer, or if there are any, they are obscure and dowdy. Ladies go to music halls and glorified night-clubs. What used to be regarded as the drawback from the dinner at a restaurant is now a principal attraction. A gentlewoman a generation ago reasonably objected that she did not know whom she might sit next. Now, as was the case at the theatre in the pre-Garrick days, the loose character of a portion of the visitors constitutes in itself a lure. The more flagrant the scandal concerning some bedizened “impropriety” the greater the inducement to dine in her company, and, if possible, in her vicinity. Of such is the tone and trend of London society to-day!
For a quarter of an hour, while Reggie was engaged with Dawson père et fille, I took counsel with the widow, endeavouring to form some idea of where Mabel had concealed herself. Mrs Percival’s idea was that she would reveal her whereabouts ere long, but, knowing her firmness of character as well as I did, I held a different opinion. Her letter was one of a woman who had made a resolve and meant at all hazards to keep it. She feared to meet me, and for that reason would, no doubt, conceal her identity. She had a separate account at Coutts’ in her own name, therefore she would not be compelled to reveal her whereabouts through want of funds.
Ford, the dead man’s secretary, a tall, clean-shaven, athletic man of thirty, put his head into the room, but, finding us talking, at once withdrew. Mrs Percival had already questioned him, she said, but he was entirely unaware of Mabel’s destination.
The man Dawson had now usurped Ford’s position in the household, and the latter, full of resentment, was on the constant watch and as full of suspicion as we all were.
Reggie rejoined me presently, saying, “That fellow is absolutely a bounder of the very first water. Actually invited me to have a whisky-and-soda – in Blair’s house, too! He’s treating Mabel’s flight as a huge joke, saying that she’ll be back quickly enough, and adding that she can’t afford to be away long, and that he’ll bring her back the very instant he desires her presence here. In fact, the fellow talks just as though she were as wax in his hands, and as if he can do anything he pleases with her.”
“He can ruin her financially, that’s certain,” I remarked, sighing. “But read this, old chap,” and I gave him her strangely-worded letter.
“Good Heavens!” he gasped, when he glanced at it, “she’s in deadly terror of those people, that’s very certain. It’s to avoid them and you that she’s escaped – to Liverpool and America, perhaps. Remember she’s been a great traveller all her youth and therefore knows her way about.”
“We must find her, Reggie,” I declared decisively.
“But the worst of it is that she’s bent on avoiding you,” he said. “She has some distinct reason for this, it seems.”
“A reason known only to herself,” I remarked pensively. “It is surely a contretemps that now, just at the moment when we have gained the truth of the Cardinal’s secret which brought Blair his fortune, Mabel should voluntarily disappear in this manner. Recollect all we have at stake. We know not who are our friends or who our enemies. We ought both to go out to Italy and discover the spot indicated in that cipher record, or others will probably forestall us, and we may then be too late.”
He agreed that the record being bequeathed to me, I ought to take immediate steps to establish my claim to it, whatever might be. We could not disguise from ourselves the fact that Dawson, as Blair’s partner and participator of his enormous wealth, must be well aware of the secret, and that he had already, most probably, taken steps to conceal the truth from myself, the rightful owner. He was a power to be reckoned with – a sinister person, possessed of the wiliest cunning and the most devilish ingenuity in the art of subterfuge. Report everywhere gave him that character. He possessed the cold, calm manner of the man who had lived by his wits, and it seemed that in this affair his ingenuity, sharpened by a life of adventure, was to be pitted against my own.
Mabel’s sudden resolution and disappearance were maddening. The mystery of her letter, too, was inscrutable. If she were really dreading lest some undesirable fact might be exposed, then she ought to have trusted me sufficiently to take me entirely into her confidence. I loved her, although I had never declared my passion, therefore, ignorant of the truth, she had treated me as I had desired, as a sincere friend. Yet, why had she not sought my aid? Women are such strange creatures, I reflected. Perhaps she loved that fellow after all!
A fevered, anxious week went by and Mabel made no sign. One night I left Reggie at the Devonshire about half-past eleven and walked the damp, foggy London streets until the roar of traffic died away, the cabs crawled and grew infrequent and the damp, muddy pavements were given over to the tramping constable and the shivering outcast. In the thick mist I wandered onward thinking deeply, yet more and more mystified at the remarkable chain of circumstances which seemed hour by hour to become more entangled.
On and on I had wandered, heedless of where my footsteps carried me, passing along Knightsbridge, skirting the Park and Kensington Gardens, and was just passing the corner of the Earl’s Court Road when some fortunate circumstance awakened me from my deep reverie, and I became conscious for the first time that I was being followed. Yes, there distinctly was a footstep behind me, hurrying when I hurried, slackening when I slackened. I crossed the road, and, before the long high wall of Holland Park I halted and turned. My pursuer came on a few paces, but drew up suddenly, and I could only distinguish against the glimmer of the street lamp through the London fog a figure long and distorted by the bewildering mist. The latter was not sufficiently dense to prevent me finding my way, for I knew that part of London well. Nevertheless, to be followed so persistently at such an hour was not very pleasant. I was suspicious that some tramp or thief who had passed me by and found me oblivious to my surroundings had turned and followed me with evil intent.
Forward I went again, but as soon as I had done so the light, even tread, almost an echo of my own, came on steadily behind me. I had heard weird stories of madmen who haunt the London streets at night and who follow unsuspecting foot-passengers aimlessly. It is one of the forms of insanity well known to specialists.
Again I recrossed the road, passing through Edwarde’s Square and out into Earl’s Court Road, thus retracing my steps back towards the High Street, but the mysterious man still followed me so persistently that in the mist, which in that part had grown thicker until it obscured the street lamps, I confess I experienced some uneasiness.
Presently, however, just as I was turning the corner into Lexham Gardens at a point where the fog had obscured everything, I felt a sudden rush, and at the same instant experienced a sharp stinging sensation behind the right shoulder. The shock was such a severe one that I cried out, turning next instant upon my assailant, but so agile was he that, ere I could face him, he had eluded me and escaped.
I heard his receding footsteps – for he was running away down the Earl’s Court Road – and shouted for the police. But there was no response. The pain in my shoulder became excruciating. The unknown man had struck me with a knife, and blood was flowing, for I felt it damp and sticky upon my hand.
Again I shouted “Police! Police!” until at last I heard an answering voice in the mist and walked in its direction. After several further shouts I discovered the constable and to him related my strange experience.
He held his bull’s eye close to my back and said —
“Yes, there’s no doubt, sir, you’ve been stabbed! What kind of a man was he?”
“I never saw him,” was my lame reply. “He always kept at a distance from me and only approached at a point where it was too dark to distinguish his features.”
“I’ve seen no one, except a clergyman whom I met a moment ago passing in Earl’s Court Road – at least he wore a broad-brimmed hat like a clergyman. I didn’t see his face.”
“A clergyman!” I gasped. “Do you think it could have been a Roman Catholic priest?” for my thoughts were at that moment of Fra Antonio, who was evidently the guardian of the Cardinal’s secret.
“Ah! I’m sure I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t see his features. I only noted his hat.”
“I feel very faint,” I said, as a sickening dizziness crept over me. “I wish you’d get me a cab. I think I had better go straight home to Great Russell Street.”
“That’s a long way. Hadn’t you better go round to the West London Hospital first?” the policeman suggested.
“No,” I decided. “I’ll go home and call my own doctor.”
Then I sat upon a doorstep at the end of Lexham Gardens and waited while the constable went in search of a hansom in the Old Brompton Road.
Had I been attacked by some homicidal maniac who had followed me all that distance, or had I narrowly escaped being the victim of foul assassination? To me the latter theory seemed decidedly the most feasible. There was a strong motive for my death. Blair had bequeathed the great secret to me and I had now learnt the cipher of the cards.
This fact had probably become known to our enemies, and hence their dastardly attempt.
Such a contingency, however, was a startling one, for if it had become known that I had really deciphered the record, then our enemies would most certainly take steps in Italy to prevent us discovering the secret of that spot on the banks of the wild and winding Serchio.
At last the cab came, and, slipping a tip into the constable’s palm, I got in, and with my silk muffler placed at my back to staunch the blood, drove slowly on through the fog at little more than foot’s-pace.
Almost as soon as I entered the hansom I felt my head swimming and a strange sensation of numbness creeping up my legs. A curious nausea seized me, too, and although I had fortunately been able to stop the flow of blood, which tended to prove that the wound was not such a serious one after all, my hands felt strangely cramped, and in my jaws was a curious pain very much like the commencement of an attack of neuralgia.
I felt terribly ill. The cabman, informed by the constable of my injury, opened the trap-door in the roof to inquire after me, but I could scarcely articulate a reply. If the wound was only a superficial one it certainly had a strange effect upon me.
Of the many misty lights at Hyde Park Corner I have a distinct recollection, but after that my senses seemed bewildered by the fog and the pain I suffered and I recollect nothing more until, when I opened my eyes painfully again, I found myself in my own bed, the daylight shining in at the window and Reggie and our old friend Tom Walker, surgeon, of Queen Anne Street, standing beside me watching me with a serious gravity that struck me at the moment as rather humorous.
Nevertheless, I must admit that there was very little humour in the situation.
Chapter Twenty Three
Which is in Many Ways Amazing
Walker was puzzled, distinctly puzzled. He had, I found, strapped up my wound during my unconsciousness after probing it and injecting various antiseptics, I suppose. He had also called in consultation Sir Charles Hoare, the very distinguished surgeon of Charing Cross Hospital, and both of them had been greatly puzzled over my symptoms.
When, an hour later, I was sufficiently recovered to be able to talk, Walker held my wrist and asked me how it all happened.
After I had explained as well as I could, he said —
“Well, my dear fellow, I can only say you’ve been about as near to death as any man I’ve ever attended. It was just a case of touch and go with you. When Seton first called me and I saw you I feared that it was all up. Your wound is quite a small one, superficial really, and yet your collapsed condition has been most extraordinary, and there are certain symptoms so mysterious that they have puzzled both Sir Charles and myself.”
“What did the fellow use?”
“Not an ordinary knife, certainly. It was evidently a long, thin-bladed dagger – a stiletto, most probably. I found outside the wound upon the cloth of your overcoat some grease, like animal fat. I am having a portion of it analysed and do you know what I expect to find in it?”
“No; what?”
“Poison,” was his reply. “Sir Charles agrees with me in the theory that you were struck with one of those small, antique poignards with perforated blades, used so frequently in Italy in the fifteenth century.”
“In Italy!” I cried, the very name of that country arousing within me suspicion of an attempt upon me by Dawson or by his close friend, the Monk of Lucca.
“Yes; Sir Charles, who, as you probably know, possesses a large collection of ancient arms, tells me that in mediaeval Florence they used to impregnate animal fat with some very potent poison and then rub it upon the perforated blade. On striking a victim the act of withdrawing the blade from the wound left a portion of the envenomed grease within, which, of course, produced a fatal effect.”
“But you surely don’t anticipate that I’m poisoned?” I gasped.
“Certainly you are poisoned. Your wound would neither account for your long insensibility nor for the strange, livid marks upon your body. Look at the backs of your hands!”
I looked as he directed and was horrified to find upon each small, dark, copper-coloured marks, which also covered my wrists and arms.
“Don’t be too alarmed, Greenwood,” the good-humoured doctor laughed, “you’ve turned the corner, and you’re not going to die yet. You’ve had a narrow squeak of it, and certainly the weapon with which you were struck was as deadly as any that could be devised, but, fortunately, you had a thick overcoat on, besides other heavy clothing, vests and things, all of which removed the greater part of the venomous substance before it could enter the flesh. And a lucky thing it was for you, I can tell you. Had you been attacked like this in summer, you’d have stood no chance.”
“But who did it?” I exclaimed, bewildered, my eyes riveted upon those ugly marks upon my skin, the evidence that some deadly poison was at work within my system.
“Somebody who owed you a very first-class grudge, I should fancy,” laughed the surgeon, who had been my friend for many years and who used sometimes to come out hunting with the Fitzwilliams. “But cheer up, old chap, you’ll have to live on milk and beef-tea for a day or two, have your wound dressed and keep very quiet, and you’ll soon be bobbing about again.”
“That’s all very well,” I replied, impatiently, “but I’ve got a host of things to do, some private matters to attend to.”
“Then you’ll have to let them slide for a day or two, that’s very certain.”
“Yes,” urged Reggie, “you must really keep quiet, Gilbert. I’m only thankful that it isn’t so serious as we at first expected. When the cabman brought you home and Glave tore out for Walker, I really thought you’d die before he arrived. I couldn’t feel any palpitation of your heart, and you were cold as ice.”
“I wonder who was the brute who struck me!” I cried. “Great Jacob! if I’d have caught the fellow, I’d have wrung his precious neck there and then.”
“What’s the use of worrying, so long as you get better quickly?” Reggie asked philosophically.
But I was silent, reflecting that in the belief of Sir Charles Hoare an old Florentine poison dagger had been used. The very fact caused me to suspect that the dastardly attack had been made upon me by my enemies.
We, of course, told Walker nothing of our curious quest, for the present regarding the affair as strictly confidential. Therefore he treated my injury lightly, declaring that I should quickly recover by the exercise of a little patience.
After he had left, shortly before midday, Reggie sat at my bedside and gravely discussed the situation. The two most pressing points at that moment were first to discover the whereabouts of my well-beloved, and secondly to go out to Italy and investigate the Cardinal’s secret.
The days passed, long, weary, gloomy days of early spring, during which I tossed in bed impatient and helpless. I longed to be up and active, but Walker forbade it. He brought me books and papers instead, and enjoined quiet and perfect rest. Although Reggie and I still had our little hunting box down at Helpstone we had not, since Blair’s death, been down there. Besides, the season in the lace trade was an unusually busy one, and Reggie now seemed tied to his counting-house more than ever.
So I was left alone the greater part of the day with Glave to attend to my wants, and with one or two male friends who now and then looked in to smoke and chat.
Thus passed the month of March, my progress being much slower than Walker had at first anticipated. On analysis a very dangerous irritant poison had been discovered mixed with the grease, and it appeared that I had absorbed more of it into my system than was at first believed – hence my tardy recovery.
Mrs Percival, who at our urgent request still remained at Grosvenor Square, visited me sometimes, bringing me fruit and flowers from the hothouses at Mayvill, but she had nothing to report concerning Mabel. The latter had disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed her. She was anxious to leave Blair’s house now that it was occupied by the usurpers, but we had cajoled her into remaining in order to keep some check upon the movements of the man Dawson and his daughter. Ford had been so exasperated at the man’s manner that, on the fifth day of the new régime, he had remonstrated, whereupon Dawson had calmly placed a year’s wages in banknotes in an envelope, and at once dispensed with his further services, as, of course, he had intended to do all along.
The confidential secretary was, however, assisting us, and at that moment was making every inquiry possible to ascertain the whereabouts of his young mistress.
“The house is absolutely topsy-turvy,” declared Mrs Percival one day, as she sat with me. “The servants are in revolt, and poor Noble, the housekeeper, is having a most terrible time. Carter and eight of the other servants gave notice yesterday. This person Dawson represents the very acme of bad manners and bad breeding, yet I overheard him remarking to his daughter two days ago that he actually contemplated putting up for the Reform and entering Parliament! Ah! what would poor Mabel say, if she knew? The girl, Dolly, as he calls her, the common little wench, has established herself in Mabel’s boudoir, and is about to have it re-decorated in daffodil yellow, to suit her complexion, I believe, while as for finances, it seems, from what Mr Leighton says, that poor Mr Blair’s fortune must go entirely through the fellow’s hands.”
“It’s a shame – an abominable shame!” I cried angrily. “We know that the man is an adventurer, and yet we are utterly powerless,” I added bitterly.
“Poor Mabel!” sighed the widow, who was really much devoted to her. “Do you know, Mr Greenwood,” she said, with a sudden air of confidence, “I have thought more than once since her father’s death that she is in possession of the truth of the strange connexion between her father and this unscrupulous man who has been given such power over her and hers. Indeed, she has confessed to me as much. And I believe that, if she would but tell us the truth, we might be able to get rid of this terrible incubus. Why doesn’t she do it – to save herself?”
“Because she is now in fear of him,” I answered in a hard, despairing voice. “She holds some secret of which she lives in terror. That, I believe, accounts for the sudden manner in which she has left her own roof and disappeared. She has left the fellow in undisputed possession of everything.”
I had not forgotten Dawson’s arrogance and self-confidence on the night he had first called upon us.
“But now, Mr Greenwood, will you please excuse me for what I am going to say?” asked Mrs Percival, settling her skirts after a brief pause and looking straight into my face. “Perhaps I have no right to enter into your more private matters in this manner, but I trust you will forgive me when you reflect that I am only speaking on the poor girl’s behalf.”
“Well!” I inquired, somewhat surprised at her sudden change of manner. Usually she was haughty and frigid in the extreme, a scathing critic who had the names of everybody’s cousins aunts and nephews at her fingers’ ends.
“The fact is this,” she went on. “You might, I feel confident, induce her to tell us the truth. You are the only person who possesses any influence with her now that her father in dead, and – permit me to say so – I have reason for knowing that she entertains a very strong regard for you.”
“Yes,” I remarked, unable to restrain a sigh, “we are friends – good friends.”
“More,” declared Mrs Percival, “Mabel loves you.”
“Loves me!” I cried, starting up and supporting myself upon one elbow. “No, I think you must be mistaken. She regards me more as a brother than a lover, and she has, I think, learnt ever since the first day we met in such romantic conditions, to regard me in the light of a protector.
“No,” I added, shaking my head, “there are certain barriers that must prevent her loving me – the difference of our ages, of position and all that.”
“Ah! There you are entirely mistaken,” said the widow, quite frankly. “I happen to know that the very reason why her father left his secret to you was in order that you might profit by its knowledge as he had done, and because he foresaw the direction of Mabel’s affections.”
“How do you know this, Mrs Percival?” I demanded, half inclined to doubt her.
“Because Mr Blair, before making his will, took me into his confidence and asked me frankly whether his daughter had ever mentioned you in such a manner as to cause me to suspect. I told him the truth of course, just as I have now told you. Mabel loves you – loves you very dearly.”
“Then for the legacy left me by poor Blair, I am, in a great measure, indebted to you?” I remarked, adding a word of thanks and pondering deeply over the revelation she had just made.
“I only did what was my duty to you both,” was her response. “She loves you, as I say, and therefore, by a little persuasion you could, I feel convinced, induce her to tell us the truth concerning this man Dawson. She has fled, it is true, but more in fear of what you may think of her when her secret is out, than of the man himself. Recollect,” she added, “Mabel is passionately fond of you, she has confessed it to me many times, but for some extraordinary reason which remains a mystery, she is endeavouring to repress her affection. She fears, I think, that on your part there is only friendship – that you are too confirmed a bachelor to regard her with any thoughts of affection.”
“Oh, Mrs Percival!” I cried, with a sudden outpouring, “I tell you, I confess to you that I have loved Mabel all along – I love her now, fondly, passionately, with all that fierce ardour that comes to a man only once in his lifetime. She has misjudged me. It is I who have been foolishly at fault, for I have been blind, I have never read her heart’s secret.”
“Then she must know this at once,” was the elderly woman’s sympathetic answer. “We must discover her, at all costs, and tell her. There must be a reunion, and she on her part, must confess to you. I know too well how deeply she loves you,” she added, “I know how she admires you and how, in the secrecy of her room, she has time after time wept long and bitterly because she believed you were cold and blind to the burning passion of her true pure heart.”
But how? The whereabouts of my well-beloved were unknown. She had disappeared completely, in order, it seemed, to escape some terrible revelation which she knew must be made sooner or later.
In the days that followed, while I lay still weak and helpless, both Ford and Reggie were active in their inquiries, but all in vain. I called in the solicitor, Leighton, in consultation, but he could devise no plan other than to advertise, yet to do so was, we agreed, scarcely fair to her.
Curiously enough the dark-faced young woman, Dorothy Dawson, otherwise Dolly, also betrayed the keenest anxiety for Mabel’s welfare. Her mother was Italian, and she spoke English with a slight accent, having always, she said, lived in Italy. Indeed, she called upon me once to express her regret at my illness, and I found that she really improved on acquaintance. Her apparent coarseness was only on account of her mixed nationality, and although she was a shrewd young person possessed of all the subtle Italian cunning, Reggie, I think, found her a bright and amusing companion.
All my thoughts were, however, of my sweet lost love, and of that common, arrogant fellow who, by his threats and taunts, held her so irresistibly and secretly in his power.
Why had she fled in terror from me, and why had such a dastardly and ingenious attempt been made to kill me?
I had solved the secret of the cipher only to be plunged still deeper into the mazes of doubt, despair and mystery, for what the closed book of the future held for me, was as you will see, truly startling and bewildering.
The truth when revealed was hard, solid fact, and yet so strange and amazing was it that it staggered all belief.