Chapter Eleven.
Shows a Woman’s Weakness
Eric, standing with his back to the mantelshelf, revealed to me a fact that was both extraordinary and startling.
“After you’d left Ryhall yesterday,” he said, “I was walking across the park to meet Cynthia, who’d gone out to pay a visit to that thin old parson’s wife over at Waltham, when, quite unexpectedly, I came across Ellice standing talking to a rather badly-dressed young woman. She was in shabby black, with a brown straw hat trimmed with violets, and an old fur tippet around her neck. They were under a tree a little aside from the by-path that leads across to Waltham, and were speaking excitedly. I was walking on the grass and they did not hear me approach. Suddenly she made some statement which caused him to hesitate and think. Then he gave her some money hurriedly from his pocket, and after a further conversation they parted, she proceeding towards the high road, while Winsloe went in the direction of the house. I followed at a respectable distance, and that afternoon, when we assembled in the hall for tea, he announced that he had been suddenly recalled to town. In this I suspected something, so when he left by the seven-thirty-five express I followed him here.”
“Well?” I asked, looking straight into his face.
“Well, he’s in search of Tibbie.”
“Of Tibbie! What does he know?”
“That woman who met him in the park told him something. She probably knew of your appointment.”
“Why?”
“Because this morning he went to Harker’s Hotel in Waterloo Road, and inquired for her. But you had very fortunately taken her away.”
“Then if he knows of our appointment he will certainly follow me!” I said, in utter amazement.
“Most certainly he will. You recognise the grave peril of the situation?”
“I do,” I said, for I saw that Sybil must at once be seriously compromised. “But who could have known our secret? Who was the woman?”
“I’ve never seen her before. She’s an entire stranger. But that she is aware of Tibbie’s movements is beyond doubt. You were evidently seen together when you met last night – or how would he know that she slept at Harker’s Hotel?”
I was silent. I saw the very serious danger that now lay before us. Yet why was this man in search of Tibbie? He had proposed to her, she had said, and had been refused.
I recalled to my companion the fact of the photograph of the dead man being found in his bag.
“Yes,” Eric said. “He has recognised the victim but has some secret motive in remaining silent. Is it, I wonder, a motive of revenge?”
“Against whom?”
For a few moments he did not speak. Then he answered —
“Against Tibbie.”
I pursed my lips, for I discerned his meaning. Was it possible that Ellice Winsloe knew the truth?
“Therefore, what are we to do? What do you suggest?” I asked.
“You must not risk going to see Sybil to-morrow. Where is she?”
I briefly explained all that we had done that day, and how and where she had gone into hiding.
“Then you must send her an express letter in the morning. We must not go to see her. You are certainly watched.”
“But think of her,” I said. “I am posing as her husband, and she will require my presence there to-morrow in order to complete the fiction.”
“It’s too risky – far too risky,” Eric declared, shaking his head dubiously.
“The only way is for you to keep watch upon Winsloe,” I suggested, “and warn me of his movements.”
“But the woman – the woman who met him by appointment in the park? She may be in his employ as spy.”
“Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, I wonder,” I said.
“Never mind how they got to know,” he exclaimed. “I tell you that you mustn’t go near Tibbie. It’s far too dangerous at this moment.”
His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybil there alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it very strange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it. Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.
To allay Eric’s fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and made him promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guest whenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, and after a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far into the night.
Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloe ascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch upon him, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe had well-furnished rooms in King Street, St. James’s Square, was one of a go-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayest clubs frequented by the jeunesse dorée.
It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street, Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric’s advice I succeeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Station and along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams’ a little after eleven o’clock.
Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window, and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voice loud enough for the landlady to overhear, —
“Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?”
“Yes, dear,” was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closed the door.
“The time passes here awfully slowly,” she declared in a low voice. “I thought you were never coming. I shall have to get a few books to read.”
“I was delayed,” I said, taking off my cloth cap and flinging it upon the sofa. “I found Eric Domville awaiting me. He came up from Ryhall to-day and told me some strange news.”
“Strange news!” she gasped, turning deathly pale and clutching at the back of a chair in order to steady herself. “What – what news?”
The truth was instantly plain. Her fear was that the mystery of the unknown had been discovered.
I had quite inadvertently struck terror into her heart, for upon her countenance was that same haunted look as on that night when she had left Ryhall in secret.
“What Eric has told me concerns Ellice Winsloe,” I said, much surprised, and yet allowing her agitation to pass unnoticed.
“Ellice Winsloe. Is he – has he come to London?” she gasped, staring at me and starting.
“Yes, and more. He knows that you slept the night before last at Harker’s. He called to see you an hour after we had left yesterday.”
“He knows!” she cried in a low, terrified voice.
“Ellice knows that I was there! Then he has followed me – he – he means to carry out his threat!”
“What threat?”
“Ah, no. I – I’m mad, Wilfrid. I – I don’t know what I’m saying!” she cried, pushing her hair from her brow with both her hands and pacing up and down the room. “But you will help me – won’t you?” she implored, halting before me and looking me straight in the face.
“Help you – of course,” I said. “But I confess I can’t understand. This man only proposed marriage to you a fortnight ago.”
“I know. I know. And I refused him. Ah! Wilfrid. I would rather kill myself than marry that man!”
“Then you know something concerning him that is not in his favour?”
“I know a great deal. I often wonder why Jack and he are such intimate friends.”
“He’s rich, you said, and Lady Scarcliff approved of him.”
“That is so,” she answered thoughtfully. “But the mater is ignorant of it all. Ah! if I only dare tell you. It would astound and stagger you.”
“He is in search of you, that’s very clear,” I said, hoping to induce her to tell me something further.
“But he must not find me,” she declared. “The day he discovers me I shall take my life,” she added in a hard, desperate voice.
“Why? Do you fear him?”
She made no answer, but her chin sank upon her breast.
“Then tell me the truth, Tibbie,” I said. “He tried to compel you to marry him because he held some secret of yours that you do not wish to be known. Am I not right?”
She nodded in the affirmative, and I saw that tears were in her fine eyes.
What was the secret, I wondered? Was it the existence of that low-born lover, a photograph of whom he had carried in his bag? Did he hold over her a threat of exposure because he had become seized by a desire that she should be his wife? Many a woman has been forced into an odious marriage in order to preserve her secret.
I looked into her pale haggard face and wondered. How beautiful she was in her terror and distress. She was in fear of that man, whose life was, when viewed in the plain light of day, somewhat mysterious. But what did she fear? Who was the man who had fallen by her hand?
We had arranged that Mrs Williams should cook for us, and presently she came smilingly to lay the table, simply, but cleanly. Thus, our conversation was interrupted, but when alone again I returned to the subject, and she said, with a serious look, —
“Wilfrid, he must not discover me. If he does – if he does, then all is at an end. Even you cannot save me.”
“But I fear I may be followed here,” I said. “He knew that we met last night, or he would not have been aware that you slept at Harker’s. He, or someone employed by him, is watching me. I must remain away from you.”
“Yes,” she remarked. “I quite foresee the danger, yet I shall be very lonely. And besides, what can I say to Mrs Williams?”
“We’ll have to make an excuse that I’ve been sent into the country to work,” I said. “If I come daily here I’m quite certain Winsloe will discover you. This knowledge of his regarding our meeting the day before yesterday makes me suspicious.”
“You are right,” she declared sadly. “He has means of knowing everything. No secret seems safe from that man, Wilfrid. I sometimes think – sometimes I think that – ” and she hesitated.
“That what?”
But she did not reply. She was standing at the window gazing fixedly down into the grey, dismal street. The words she had uttered mechanically, just as though she were speaking to herself.
“You told me, Tibbie, that if I pretended to be your husband that I might save you,” I remarked presently.
“And so you may, providing Ellice Winsloe does not discover me. If he does – then all is useless – quite useless. I shall have compromised myself and placed you in an invidious position, all to no purpose.”
“But by discretion – by my remaining away from you, and only coming here by stealth when I know that Winsloe is not watchful, I may still remain your husband in the eyes of these people.”
“Yes, yes, Wilfrid,” she said eagerly, placing her nervous hand upon my shoulder and looking deeply into my eyes. “That is the only way. I must live here alone – in hiding. They must not find me. Let us have patience – patience always – and we may foil that man’s evil intentions. Ah! If you knew everything you would pity me. But you do not. You believe that I hold some guilty secret. Yes,” she added hoarsely, “it is a guilty secret, and how can I sufficiently thank you for trusting me as blindly as you do? I am very unworthy. You are the best friend, Wilfrid, that woman ever had. Can you wonder at the suggestion I made to you in the Long Gallery the other day?” Then she hesitated, still looking me straight in the face. “But you have forgiven me,” she went on with a sigh. “I thought that you loved me still – yes – I was very foolish. All women are so sometimes – all women who are terrified and unhappy, as I am!”
And the tears again stood in her eyes as she bowed her beautiful head before me.
Chapter Twelve.
In the House of the Parhams
That evening, when I returned to Bolton Street, I found Eric awaiting me.
Unseen, he had followed Winsloe to various places during the afternoon, but his movements were in no way suspicious. At Harker’s Hotel he had, it appeared, lost all trace of Sybil, and had probably employed a private detective to watch my movements.
The adjourned inquest had been held at Midhurst, for in the Globe there appeared a four-line paragraph saying that in the case of an unknown man found shot in Charlton Wood, a verdict of wilful murder had been returned, and the matter had been left in the hands of the police. A village tragedy attracts but little notice in London, and all the papers dismissed it in a paragraph of practically the same wording.
That night we dined with two friends at the Trocadero, and next morning I set forth again upon my inquiries, leaving Eric to act as he thought best. My only promise to him was not to go near my pseudo wife.
My first visit was to the pawnbroker’s in the Fulham Road, to whom I presented the vouchers I had found upon the dead man, and received on redeeming them a cheap silver Geneva watch and heavy antique gold ring, in which a single ruby was set.
“You don’t recollect the gentleman who pledged these, I suppose?” I asked of the assistant.
The young man, a smart, shrewd fellow, reflected a moment, and answered, —
“Well, yes, I do remember something of him. We had an argument about the ring. He wanted five pounds on it, and I wouldn’t give it.”
“What kind of fellow was he?” I asked, explaining that I had bought the tickets from a third person.
“Oh, youngish – with a short brown beard. Evidently a gentleman who was hard up. We get lots of them in here.”
A brown beard! Had he shaved and disguised himself before his interview with Tibbie?
“Tall?” I asked.
“No. Not very.”
The description did not answer to that of the dead unknown.
“A stranger?”
“Quite. I’d never seen him before. But the truth is I recollect him because that ruby there is a valuable one. I had my doubts at the moment as to its genuineness, and as there were a lot of people waiting I had no time to examine it. So I lent him only a couple o’ quid on it.”
“Then it’s worth more?”
“Yes. If you bought the ticket cheap you’ve got a bargain. The guv’nor here would give you eighty quid for it, and be pleased.”
I looked at it, and saw that it was a very fine stone. To me it seemed evident that the man who had pawned the watch and ring was not the man who had lost his life in Charlton Wood.
“You think he was a gentleman?”
“Well, he spoke like one, and seemed very much afraid of being seen. He hesitated when I asked him his name, so I wrote down the usual one – Green.”
“And the address?”
“I put that in also.”
So finding I could discover nothing further, I carried away both watch and ring to add to the strange collection of objects which the dead man’s pockets had contained.
Close to the corner of Park Lane I came face to face with Winsloe, dressed sprucely as usual in silk hat and frock coat, and he at once stopped and offered me his hand. Then, after greeting me, he turned on his heel and walked by my side, saying, —
“I’m just strolling back to the Burlington. I’ll come with you.”
“You left the Scarcliffs earlier than you expected, didn’t you?” I remarked.
“Yes. I had some business in town,” was his brief response.
“I see from the papers that they’ve discovered nothing regarding that affair in Charlton Wood.”
“No,” he remarked in a mechanical tone. “And I don’t expect they ever will. The assassin, whoever he was, got away without leaving a trace,” and then he cleverly diverted our conversation into a different channel.
I feared to discuss it further. The man was Sybil’s enemy, and therefore mine. He evidently knew that we had met on that evening of her arrival in London, and was actively at work to trace her.
Indeed, when I afterwards reflected, I saw that in all probability he had watched me that morning, and had purposely encountered me.
To each other we were outwardly still extremely friendly. Indeed I invited him to my rooms that evening to smoke, and he accepted, for he had a motive in so doing, while I, on my part, had resolved to watch him carefully.
I lunched at the Bachelors’, and though anxious to go and see Sybil, I was compelled to content myself with sending her a telegram, saying that I had been ordered by my foreman to go up to Manchester in connection with some new linotype machinery, and must therefore be absent two or three days. I sent the message so that she might show it to Mrs Williams.
Soon after four o’clock I set forth upon another expedition, namely, by train from Victoria to Upper Sydenham Station. The autumn dusk was falling when I turned into Sydenham Hill, the wide winding road of large detached houses leading from Forest Hill up to the Crystal Palace. Essentially the residence of the wealthy City man, and an eminently respectable district, the houses stand in their own grounds with big old trees around, commanding fine views of South London. I was in search of Keymer, and being directed by a postman, found it a little way higher up than the turning known as Rock Hill, a large old-fashioned red brick place, with fine old elms standing in the grounds. An oak fence divided it from the footway, and as I passed I saw that the pink-shaded electric lamps in the drawing-room were alight, while at the grand piano was sitting a neat female figure in black.
A servant in a smart French cap was letting down the Venetian blinds, and as I watched through the gate I saw that the lady had stopped playing and turned upon the stool to speak to her.
At the same instant the figure of a man stole across the room, a tall, shadowy figure, and came up behind the woman, causing her to start from her seat, while at that moment the blind was lowered, and the artistic interior was suddenly shut out from my view.
One thing caused me to remain there in wonder. Perhaps my eyes had deceived me, but I could not help thinking that when that vague male figure crossed the room the woman started up with a look of terror. From where I stood I could not see distinctly, yet I felt certain that the person who had entered was unwelcome and unexpected.
The other blinds had already been lowered, for it was now nearly dark, and beneath the wide portico a light shone above the door. The grounds were well kept, and the greenhouse beside the drawing-room showed careful attention, while on the gravelled drive were the wheel-marks of carriages. Mr John Parham was evidently well off, in all probability a City man, like most of his neighbours. I sauntered past, wondering by what means I could ascertain something about him.
The doleful sound of the muffin-bell rang in the distance, and far up the road I saw the lamplighter going his round, the street lamps springing up from the darkness at regular intervals. I went towards him, and stopping him, made inquiries regarding the tenant of Keymer.
“’E’s a very nice gentleman, sir,” replied the man. “Always gives good Christmas-boxes.”
“Married?”
“Yes, sir. But ’e has no children. They keep a carriage – one o’ them there open ones.”
“Now I want to know something about him,” I said, slipping a coin into the man’s hand. “Do you happen to know anybody who could tell me?”
The man looked at me suspiciously, and asked, – “Pardon me, sir, but you’re a detective, p’r’aps?”
“No,” I laughed. “Not at all. It is merely private curiosity – over – well, over a little matter of business. I’m a business man – not a policeman.”
“Well,” he said, “there’s ’Arry Laking, what keeps the gate of the Crystal Palace grounds in Palace Park Road. ’E’s their cook’s brother. ’E’d tell you something, for ’e often goes there when the family are out.”
“Where’s Palace Park Road?”
“Go up to the front of the Palace and keep round to the left till you come to the gate. It’s almost the other side of the grounds.”
I acted upon his suggestion, and after walking some distance I came to the turnstile in the wall dividing the Palace grounds from the road, and there I found a middle-aged man in uniform idling over the evening paper, for that gate was little used, save by season-ticket holders.
On inquiry I discovered that he was the man of whom I was in search, and after a little judicious greasing of the palm I induced him to tell me what he knew of his sister’s master and mistress.
“Mr Parham is a wholesale jeweller in the city,” he said. “He often goes abroad for weeks at a time to buy. His wife is young, but Annie tells me she leads a very lonely life. They’re a wealthy, but an unhappy pair, that’s my opinion. Yet they know all the best people in Sydenham, and Mr Parham gives grand at-homes and dinner-parties.”
“She’s unhappy, you say,” I ventured, recollecting the curious scene I had witnessed at the instant of lowering the blinds.
“Yes. Annie has overheard their quarrels. The master, she says, has such a hold over the mistress that she dare not call her soul her own. There was a scene between them about three weeks ago. They quarrelled at the dinner-table, and Mrs Parham left the room, went upstairs, wrote a letter and tried to commit suicide by drinking some sublimate. Her maid got hold of the letter, and then succeeded in saving her mistress’s life, for fortunately the solution wasn’t strong enough. But it made her very ill, and she was in bed a week, while her husband took himself off, and never inquired after her. The servants all pity poor little Mrs Parham, and say that her husband’s a brute to her. There was another terrible row once, when her brother called and overheard Mr Parham threaten her in the next room. They say that the two men came to blows, and that he gave Parham a thorough good hiding, which he richly deserved. Mrs Parham’s brother is not a fellow to be trifled with, they say, for Parham had to plead for his life. Afterwards, the beaten dog vowed vengeance, and the poor wife had a terrible time of it.”
“A rather unhappy household,” I remarked.
“Very. Annie tells me a lot. She wouldn’t stay there – nor would any of the servants – only the wages are so good.”
I saw that the man knew more than he cared to divulge. He was no friend of Parham’s, and was certainly on the side of the ill-used wife.
“Is Parham young or old?”
“Not very old – fat, fairish, rather bald, with a round face and a long nose. Mrs Parham is quite young, about twenty-six, and people call her good-lookin’, but myself I’m no judge o’ women. I’ve my missus, and she’s the best-lookin’ of ’em all in my eyes. Of course, Mrs Parham dresses smartly, and drives in a fine carriage. She comes to the Saturday concerts sometimes.”
“You don’t like Parham,” I said. “Come, tell the truth.”
“No, I don’t,” he declared, after a slight hesitation. “He’s a wrong ’un – I know that. Only, of course, that’s strictly between you and me,” he added in confidence.
“I’d like to know your sister,” I said, quite frankly. “I’ll make it worth her while if she’ll ask me in and let me see the house. She might do it when her mistress is out.”
He shook his head dubiously.
“I don’t think she’d let a stranger see inside, sir.”
“Well, there’s no harm in trying. Will you take me and introduce me?” I asked. “Take me this evening. When do you go off duty?”
“In about half an hour.”
“Then we’ll walk down there and call,” I suggested. “Here’s my card,” and I handed him the card of a barrister friend of mine which bore an address in the Temple.
He hesitated, but when he found another half-sovereign in his palm he consented, not, however, without a good deal of curiosity as to my real object.
What he had told me regarding the Parhams, in addition to that strange scene I had witnessed from the roadway, aroused my suspicion. I somehow felt confident that there was some connection between this man who ill-treated his wife so brutally and the unfortunate victim of the tragedy in rural Sussex I waited in a neighbouring bar until Laking came off duty, and then we walked together down Sydenham Hill to the house called Keymer.
My companion entered by the tradesmen’s lych-gate, and going up to the kitchen door, rapped at it, whereupon a big buxom woman in an apron opened it, and recognising him, gasped, —
“Oh! ’Arry, I’m so glad you’ve come! They told you about it, I suppose?”
“About what? I don’t know anything,” he replied, surprised at her white, scared face and the terrified look of one of the maids who stood behind her.
“Then go into the drawin’-room and look! It’s awful. There’s a curse on this ’ouse. Go and see for yourself.”
Startled, he hurried quickly through the kitchen and along the big, well-furnished hall, I following closely behind him, eager and bewildered.
And what we saw was amazing.