CHAPTER XXVIII.
FURTHER ADMISSIONS
"The secret of Digby Kemsley is still a secret, and will ever remain a secret."
I recollected Mrs. Petre uttering those words to me as that dark-faced villain Ali had forced my inert head down upon the table.
Well, that same night when I had begged of Edwards my love's life, I sat in his room at Scotland Yard and there made a formal declaration of what had happened to me on that well-remembered night outside Colchester. I formally demanded the arrest of the woman, of Ali, and of the young man-servant, all of whom had conspired to take my life.
The clerk calmly took down my statement, which Edwards read over to me, and I duly signed it.
Then, gripping his hand, I went forth into Parliament Street, and took a taxi to Cromwell Road.
I had not seen Phrida for several days, and she was delighted at my visit.
She presented a pale, frail, little figure in her simple gown of pale pink ninon, cut slightly open at the neck and girdled narrow with turquoise blue. Her skirt was narrow, as was the mode, and her long white arms were bare to the shoulders.
She had been curled up before the fire reading when I entered, but she jumped up with an expression of welcome upon her lips.
But not until her mother had bade me good-night and discreetly withdrew, did she refer to the subject which I knew obsessed her by night and by day.
"Well, Teddy," she asked, when I sat alone with her upon the pale green silk-covered couch, her little hand in mine, "Where have you been? Why have you remained silent?"
"I've been in Brussels," I replied, and then, quite frankly, I explained my quest after the impostor.
She sat looking straight before her, her eyes fixed like a person, in a dream. At last she spoke:
"I thought," she said in a strained voice, "that you would have shown greater respect for me than to do that – when you knew it would place you in such great peril!"
"I have acted in your own interests, dearest," I replied, placing my arm tenderly about her neck. "Ah! in what manner you will never know."
"My interests!" she echoed, in despair. "Have I not told you that on the day Digby Kemsley is arrested I intend to end my life," and as she drew a long breath, I saw in her eyes that haunted, terrified look which told me that she was driven to desperation.
"No, no," I urged, stroking her hair with tenderness. "I know all that you must suffer, Phrida, but I am your friend and your protector. I will never rest until I get at the truth."
"Ah! Revelation of the truth will, alas! prove my undoing!" she whispered, in a voice full of fear. "You don't know, dear, how your relentless chase of that man is placing me in danger."
"But he is an adventurer, an impostor – a fugitive from justice, and he merits punishment!" I cried.
"Ah! And if you say that," she cried, wildly starting to her feet. "So do I! So do I!"
"Come, calm yourself, dearest," I said, placing my hand upon her shoulder and forcing her back into her chair. "You are upset to-night," and I kissed her cold, white lips. "May I ring for Mallock? Wouldn't you like to go to your room?"
She drew a deep sigh, and with an effort repressed the tears welling in her deep-set, haunted eyes.
"Yes," she faltered in her emotion. "Perhaps I had better. I – I cannot bear this strain much longer. You told me that the police did not suspect me, but – but, now I know they do. A man has been watching outside the house all day for two days past. Yes," she sobbed, "they will come, come to arrest me, but they will only find that – that I've cheated them!"
"They will not come," I answered her. "I happen to know more than I can tell you, Phrida," I whispered. "You need have no fear of arrest."
"But that woman Petre! She may denounce me – she will, I know!"
"They take no notice of such allegations at Scotland Yard. They receive too much wild correspondence," I declared. "No, dearest, go to bed and rest – rest quite assured that at present you are in no peril, and, further, that every hour which elapses brings us nearer a solution of the tragic and tantalising problem. May I ring for Mallock?" I asked, again kissing her passionately upon those lips, hard and cold as marble, my heart full of sympathy for her in her tragic despair.
"Yes," she responded faintly in a voice so low that I could hardly catch it. So I crossed and rang the bell for her maid.
Then, when she had kissed me good-night, looking into my eyes with a strange expression of wistfulness, and left the room, I dashed across to that little table whereon the ivory-hilted knife was lying and seized the important piece of evidence, so that it might not fall into Edwards' hands.
I held it within my fingers, and taking it across to the fireplace, examined it in the strong light. The ivory was yellow and old, carved with the escutcheon bearing the three balls, the arms of the great House of Medici. The blade, about seven inches long, was keen, triangular, and, at the point, sharp as a needle. Into it the rust of centuries had eaten, though in parts it was quite bright, evidently due to recent cleaning.
I was examining it for any stains that might be upon it – stains of the life-blood of Marie Bracq. But I could find none. No. They had been carefully removed, yet chemical analysis would, without doubt, reveal inevitable traces of the ghastly truth.
I had my back to the door, and was still holding the deadly weapon in my hand, scrutinising it closely, when I heard a slight movement behind me, and turning, confronted Phrida, standing erect and rigid, like a statue.
Her face was white as death, her thin hands clenched, her haunted eyes fixed upon me.
"Ah! I see!" she cried hoarsely. "You know – eh? You know!"
"No. I do not know, Phrida," was my deep reply, as I snatched her hand and held it in my own. "I only surmise that this knife was used on that fatal night, because of the unusual shape of its blade – because of the medical evidence that by such a knife Marie Bracq was killed."
She drew a deep breath.
"And you are taking it as evidence – against me!"
"Evidence against you, darling!" I echoed in reproach. "Do you think that I, the man who loves you, is endeavouring to convict you of a crime? No. Leave matters to me. I am your friend – not your enemy!"
A silence fell between us. She neither answered nor did she move for some moments. Then she said in a deep wistful tone:
"Ah! if I could only believe that you are!"
"But I am," I declared vehemently. "I love you, Phrida, with all my soul, and I will never believe ill of you – never, never!"
"How can you do otherwise in these terrible circumstances?" she queried, with a strange contraction of her brows.
"I love you, and because I love you so dearly – because you are all the world to me," I said, pressing her to my heart, "I will never accept what an enemy may allege – never, until you are permitted to relate your own story."
I still held the weapon in my hand, and I saw that her eyes wandered to it.
"Ah! Teddy!" she cried, with sudden emotion. "How can I thank you sufficiently for those words? Take that horrible thing and hide it – hide it anywhere from my eyes, for sight of it brings all the past back to me. Yet – yet I was afraid," she went on, "I dare not hide it, lest any one should ask what had become of it, and thus suspicions might be aroused. Ah! every time I have come into this room it has haunted me – I seem to see that terrible scene before my eyes – how – how they – "
But she broke off short, and covering her face with both hands added, after a few seconds' silence:
"Ah! yes, take it away – never let me gaze upon it again. But I beg of you, dear, to – to preserve my secret – my terrible secret!"
And she burst into tears.
"Not a single word shall pass my lips, neither shall a single soul see this knife. I will take it and cast it away – better to the bottom of the Thames. To-night it shall be in a place where it can never be found. So go to your room, and rest assured that you, darling, have at least one friend – myself."
I felt her breast heave and fall as I held her in my strong embrace.
Then without words she raised her white, tear-stained face and kissed me long and fondly; afterwards she left me, and in silence tottered from the room, closing the door after her.
I still held the knife in my hand – the weapon by which the terrible deed had been perpetrated.
What could I think? What would you, my reader, have thought if the woman you love stood in the same position as Phrida Shand – which God forbid?
I stood reflecting, gazing upon the antique poignard. Then slowly and deliberately I made up my mind, and placing the unsheathed knife in my breast pocket I went out into the hall, put on my coat and hat, and left the house.
Half an hour later I halted casually upon Westminster Bridge, and when no one was near, cast the ancient "Misericordia" into the dark flowing waters of the river, knowing that Edwards and his inquisitive assistants could never recover it as evidence against my love.
Four days later I received a letter from Frémy, dated from the Hotel National at Strasbourg, stating that he had traced the fugitives from Munich to the latter city, but there he had lost all trace of them. He believed they had gone to Paris, and with his chief's permission he was leaving for the French capital that night.
Weeks passed – weeks of terror and apprehension for my love, and of keenest anxiety for myself.
The month of May went by, spring with all her beauties appeared in the parks and faded in the heat and dust, while the London season commenced. Men who were otherwise never seen in town, strolled up and down St. James's Street and Piccadilly, smart women rode in the Row in the morning and gave parties at night, while the usual crop of charitable functions, society scandals, Parliamentary debates, and puff-paragraphs in the papers about Lady Nobody's dances showed the gay world of London to be in full swing.
My mantelshelf was well decorated with cards of invitation, for, nowadays, the bachelor in London can have a really good time if he chooses, yet I accepted few, spending most of my days immersed in business – in order to occupy my thoughts – while my evenings I spent at Cromwell Road.
For weeks Phrida had not referred to the tragedy in any way, and I had been extremely careful to avoid the subject. Yet, from her pale, drawn countenance – so unlike her former self – I knew how recollection of it ever haunted her, and what dread terror had gripped her young heart.
Mrs. Shand, ignorant of the truth, had many times expressed to me confidentially, fear that her daughter was falling into a bad state of health; and, against Phrida's wishes, had called in the family doctor, who, likewise ignorant, had ordered her abroad.
"Get her out of the dullness of this road, Mrs. Shand," he had said. "She wants change and excitement. Take her to some gay place on the Continent – Dinard, Trouville, Aix-les-Bains, Ostend – some place where there is brightness and movement. A few weeks there will effect a great change in her, I'm certain."
But Phrida refused to leave London, though I begged her to follow the doctor's advice, and even offered to accompany them.
As far as I could gather, Van Huffel, in Brussels, had given up the search for the fugitives; though, the more I reflected upon his replies to my questions as to the real identity of Marie Bracq, the more remarkable they seemed.
Who was she? That was the great problem uppermost always in my mind. Phrida had declared that she only knew her by that name – that she knew nothing further concerning her. And so frankly had she said this, that I believed her.
Yet I argued that, if the death of Marie Bracq was of such serious moment as the Chef du Sureté had declared, then he surely would not allow the inquiry to drop without making the most strenuous efforts to arrest those suspected of the crime.
But were his suspicions, too, directed towards Phrida? Had he, I wondered, been in consultation with Edwards, and had the latter, in confidence, revealed to him his own theory?
I held my breath each time that idea crossed my mind – as it did so very often.
From Frémy I had had several letters dated from the Préfecture of Police, Brussels, but the tenor of all was the same – nothing to report.
One thing gratified me. Edwards had not approached my love, although I knew full well, just as Phrida did, that day after day observation was being kept upon the house in Cromwell Road, yet perhaps only because the detective's duty demanded it. At least I tried to think so.
Still the one fact remained that, after all our efforts – the efforts of Scotland Yard, of the Belgian police, and of my own eager inquiries – a solution of the problem was as far off as ever.
Somewhere there existed a secret – a secret that, as Phrida had declared to me, was inviolable.
Would it ever be revealed? Would the ghastly truth ever be laid bare?
The affair of Harrington Gardens was indeed a mystery of London – as absolute and perfect an enigma of crime as had ever been placed before that committee of experts at Scotland Yard – the Council of Seven.
Even they had failed to find a solution! How, then, could I ever hope to be successful?
When I thought of it, I paced my lonely room in a frenzy of despair.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SELLER OF SHAWLS
After much eloquent persuasion on my part, and much straight talking on the part of the spectacled family doctor, and of Mrs. Shand, Phrida at last, towards the last days of June, allowed us to take her to Dinard, where, at the Hotel Royal, we spent three pleasant weeks, making many automobile excursions to Trouville, to Dinan, and other places in the neighbourhood.
The season had scarcely commenced, nevertheless the weather was perfect, and gradually I had the satisfaction of seeing the colour return to the soft cheeks of my well-beloved.
Before leaving London I had, of course, seen Edwards, and, knowing that watch was being kept upon her, I accepted the responsibility of reporting daily upon my love's movements, she being still under suspicion.
"I ought not to do this, Mr. Royle," he had said, "but the circumstances are so unusual that I feel I may stretch a point in the young lady's favour without neglecting my duty. And after all," he added, "we have no direct evidence – at least not sufficient to justify an arrest."
"Why doesn't that woman Petre come forward and boldly make her statement personally?" I had queried.
"Well, she may know that you are still alive" – he laughed – "and if so – she's afraid to go further."
I questioned him regarding his inquiries concerning the actual identity of Marie Bracq, but he only raised his eyebrows and replied:
"My dear Mr. Royle, I know nothing more than you do. They no doubt possess some information in Brussels, but they are careful to keep it there."
And so I had accompanied Phrida and her mother, hoping that the change of air and scenery might cause her to forget the shadow of guilt which now seemed to rest upon her and to crush all life and hope from her young heart.
Tiring of Dinard, Mrs. Shand hired a big, grey touring-car, and together we went first through Brittany, then to Vannes, Nantes, and up to Tours, afterwards visiting the famous chateaux of Touraine, Amboise Loches, and the rest, the weather being warm and delightful, and the journey one of the pleasantest and most picturesque in Europe.
When July came, Phrida appeared greatly improved in both health and spirits. Yet was it only pretence? Did she in the lonely watches of the night still suffer that mental torture which I knew, alas! she had suffered, for her own deep-set eyes, and pale, sunken cheeks had revealed to me the truth. Each time I sat down and wrote that confidential note to Edwards, I hated myself – that I was set to spy upon the woman I loved with all my heart and soul.
Would the truth never be told? Would the mystery of that tragic January night in South Kensington never be elucidated?
One evening in the busy but pleasant town of Tours, Mrs. Shand having complained of headache after a long, all-day excursion in the car, Phrida and I sauntered out after dinner, and after a brief walk sat down outside one of those big cafés where the tables are placed out beneath the leafy chestnut trees of the boulevard.
The night was hot and stifling, and as we sat there chatting over our coffee amid a crowd of people enjoying the air after the heat of the day, a dark-faced, narrow-eyed Oriental in a fez, with a number of Oriental rugs and cheap shawls, came and stood before us, in the manner of those itinerant vendors who haunt Continental cafés.
He said nothing, but, standing like a bronze statue, he looked hard at me and pointed solemnly at a quantity of lace which he held in his left hand.
"No, I want nothing," I replied in French, shaking my head.
"Ve-ry cheep, sare!" he exclaimed in broken English at last. "You no buy for laidee?" and he showed his white teeth with a pleasant grin.
I again replied in the negative, perhaps a little impatiently, when suddenly Phrida whispered to me:
"Why, we saw this same man in Dinard, and in another place – I forget where. He haunts us!"
"These men go from town to town," I explained. "They make a complete round of France."
Then I suddenly recollected that the man's face was familiar. I had seen him outside the Piccadilly Tube Station on the night of my tryst with Mrs. Petre!
"Yes, laidee!" exclaimed the man, who had overheard Phrida's words. "I see you Dinard – Hotel Royal – eh?" he said with a smile. "Will you buy my lace – seelk lace; ve-ry cheep?"
"I know it's cheap," I laughed; "but we don't want it."
Nevertheless, he placed it upon the little marble-topped table for our inspection, and then bending, he whispered into my ear a question:
"Mee-ster Royle you – eh?"
"Yes," I said, starting.
"I want see you, to-night, alone. Say no-ting to laidee till I see you – outside your hotel eleven o'clock, sare – eh?"
I sat staring at him in blank surprise, but in a low voice I consented.
Then, very cleverly he asked in his normal voice, looking at me with his narrow eyes, with dark brows meeting:
"You no buy at that price – eh? Ah!" and he sighed as he gathered up his wares: "Cheep, laidee – very goot and cheep!"
And bowing, he slung them upon the heavy pile already on his shoulder and stalked away.
"What did he say?" Phrida asked when he had gone.
"Oh, only wanted me to buy the lot for five francs!" I replied, for he had enjoined secrecy, and I knew not but he might be an emissary of Frémy or of Edwards. Therefore I deemed it best for the time to evade her question.
Still, both excited and puzzled, I eagerly kept the appointment.
When I emerged from the hotel on the stroke of eleven I saw the man without his pile of merchandise standing in the shadow beneath a tree, on the opposite side of the boulevard, awaiting me.
Quickly I crossed to him, and asked:
"Well, what do you want with me?"
"Ah, Mee-ster Royle! I have watched you and the young laidee a long time. You travel so quickly, and I go by train from town to town – slowly."
"Yes, but why?" I asked, as we strolled together under the trees.
"I want to tell you some-zing, mee-ster. I no Arabe – I Senos, from Huacho."
"From Huacho!" I gasped quickly.
"Yees. My dead master he English – Sir Digby Kemsley!"
"Sir Digby!" I cried. "And you were his servant. You knew this man Cane – why, you were the man who heard your master curse the man who placed the deadly reptile against his face. You made a statement to the police, did you not?" I asked frantically.
"Yees, Mee-ster Royle – I did! I know a lot," he replied in his slow way, stalking along in the short breeches, red velvet jacket, and fez of an Oriental.
"You will tell me, Senos?" I said. "You will tell me everything?" I urged. "Tell me all that you know!"
He grinned in triumph, saying:
"I know a lot – I know all. Cane killed my master – killed him with the snake – he and Luis together. I know – I saw. But the Englishman is always great, and his word believed by the commissary of police – not the word of Senos. Oh, no! but I have followed; I have watched. I have been beside Cane night and day when he never dream I was near. I tell the young lady all the truth, and – ah! – she tell him after I beg her to be silent."
"But where is Cane now?" I asked eagerly. "Do you know?"
"The 'Red' Englishman – he with Madame Petre and Luis – he call himself Ali, the Indian."
"Where? Can you take me to them?" I asked. "You know there is a warrant out for their arrest?"
"I know – but – "
"But what?" I cried.
"No, not yet. I wait," he laughed. "I know every-ting. He kill my master; I kill him. My master be very good master."
"Yes, I know he was," I said.
"That man Cane – very bad man. Your poor young laidee – ah? She not know me. I know her. You no say you see me – eh? I tell every-ting later. You go Ostend; I meet you. Then we see them."
"At Ostend!" I cried. "Are they there?"
"You go Ostend to-morrow. Tell me your hotel. Senos come – eh? Senos see them with you. Oh! Oh!" he said in his quaint way, grinning from ear to ear.
I looked at the curious figure beside me. He was the actual man who had heard the dying cries of Sir Digby Kemsley.
"But, tell me," I urged, "have you been in London? Do you know that a young lady died in Cane's apartment – was killed there?"
"Senos knows," he laughed grimly. "Senos has not left him – ah, no! He kill my master. I never leave him till I crush him – never!"
"Then you know, of what occurred at Harrington Gardens?" I repeated.
"Yes, Senos know. He tell in Ostend when we meet," he replied. "You go to-morrow, eh?" and he looked at me anxiously with those dark, rather blood-shot eyes of his.
"I will go to-morrow," I answered without hesitation; and, taking out my wallet I gave him three notes of a hundred francs each, saying:
"This will pay your fare. I will go straight to the Grand Hotel, on the Digue. You will meet me there."
"And the laidee – eh? She must be there too."
"Yes, Miss Shand will be with me," I said.
"Good, sare – very good!" he replied, thrusting the notes into the inner pocket of his red velvet jacket. "I get other clothes – these only to sell things," and he smiled.
I tried to induce him to tell me more, but he refused, saying:
"At Ostend Senos show you. He tell you all he know – he tell the truth about the 'Red' Englishman."
And presently, after he had refused the drink I offered him, the Peruvian, who was earning his living as an Arab of North Africa, bowed with politeness and left me, saying:
"I meet you, Mee-ster Royle, at Grand Hotel in Ostend. But be careful neither of you seen. They are sharp, clever, alert – oh, ve-ry! We leave to-morrow – eh? Good!"
And a moment later the quaint figure was lost in the darkness.
An hour later, though past midnight, I despatched two long telegrams – one to Frémy in Brussels, and the other to Edwards in London.
Then, two days later, by dint of an excuse that I had urgent business in Ostend, I found myself with Phrida and Mrs. Shand, duly installed, in rooms overlooking the long, sunny Digue, one of the finest sea-promenades in Europe.
Ostend had begun her season, the racing season had commenced, and all the hotels had put on coats of new, white paint, and opened their doors, while in the huge Kursaal they played childish games of chance now that M. Marquet was no longer king – yet the magnificent orchestra was worth a journey to listen to.
On the afternoon of our arrival, all was gay and bright; outside the blue sea, the crowd of well-dressed promenaders, and the golden sands where the bathing was so merry and so chic.
But I had no eyes for the beauties or gaiety of the place. I sat closeted in my room with two friends, Frémy and Edwards, whom I introduced and who quickly fraternised.
A long explanatory letter I had written to Brussels had reached Frémy before his departure from the capital.
"Excellent," he was saying, his round, clean-shaven face beaming. "This Peruvian evidently knows where they are, and like all natives, wants to make a coup-de-theatre. I've brought two reliable men with me from Brussels, and we ought – if they are really here – to make a good capture."
"Miss Shand knows nothing, you say?" Edwards remarked, seated on the edge of my bed.
"No. This man Senos was very decided upon the point."
"He has reasons, no doubt," remarked the detective.
"It is just four o'clock," I remarked. "He has given me a rendezvous at the Café de la Règence, a little place at the corner of the Place d'Armes. I went round to find it as soon as I arrived. We're due there in a quarter of an hour."
"Then let us go, messieurs," Frémy suggested.
"And what about Miss Shand?" I asked.
The two detectives held a brief discussion. Then Edwards, addressing me, said:
"I really think that she ought to be present, Mr. Royle. Would you bring her? Prepare her for a scene – as there no doubt will be – and then follow us."
"But Senos will not speak without I am present," I said.
"Then go along to Miss Shand, give her my official compliments and ask her to accompany us upon our expedition," he replied.
And upon his suggestion I at once acted.
Truly those moments were breathless and exciting. I could hear my own heart beat as I went along the hotel corridor to knock at the door of her room.