VI
THE SUICIDES
Lord Argentine was a great favourite in London Society. At twenty hehad been a poor man, decked with the surname of an illustrious family,but forced to earn a livelihood as best he could, and the mostspeculative of money-lenders would not have entrusted him with fiftypounds on the chance of his ever changing his name for a title, and hispoverty for a great fortune. His father had been near enough to thefountain of good things to secure one of the family livings, but theson, even if he had taken orders, would scarcely have obtained so muchas this, and moreover felt no vocation for the ecclesiastical estate.Thus he fronted the world with no better armour than the bachelor'sgown and the wits of a younger son's grandson, with which equipment hecontrived in some way to make a very tolerable fight of it. Attwenty-five Mr. Charles Aubernon saw himself still a man of strugglesand of warfare with the world, but out of the seven who stood beforehim and the high places of his family three only remained. Thesethree, however, were "good lives," but yet not proof against the Zuluassegais and typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernon woke up andfound himself Lord Argentine, a man of thirty who had faced thedifficulties of existence, and had conquered. The situation amused himimmensely, and he resolved that riches should be as pleasant to him aspoverty had always been. Argentine, after some little consideration,came to the conclusion that dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhapsthe most amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity, and thus his dinnersbecame famous in London, and an invitation to his table a thingcovetously desired. After ten years of lordship and dinners Argentinestill declined to be jaded, still persisted in enjoying life, and by akind of infection had become recognized as the cause of joy in others,in short, as the best of company. His sudden and tragical deaththerefore caused a wide and deep sensation. People could scarcelybelieve it, even though the newspaper was before their eyes, and thecry of "Mysterious Death of a Nobleman" came ringing up from thestreet. But there stood the brief paragraph: "Lord Argentine was founddead this morning by his valet under distressing circumstances. It isstated that there can be no doubt that his lordship committed suicide,though no motive can be assigned for the act. The deceased noblemanwas widely known in society, and much liked for his genial manner andsumptuous hospitality. He is succeeded by," etc., etc.
By slow degrees the details came to light, but the case still remaineda mystery. The chief witness at the inquest was the deceased's valet,who said that the night before his death Lord Argentine had dined witha lady of good position, whose name was suppressed in the newspaperreports. At about eleven o'clock Lord Argentine had returned, andinformed his man that he should not require his services till the nextmorning. A little later the valet had occasion to cross the hall andwas somewhat astonished to see his master quietly letting himself outat the front door. He had taken off his evening clothes, and wasdressed in a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers, and wore a low brown hat.The valet had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine had seen him,and though his master rarely kept late hours, thought little of theoccurrence till the next morning, when he knocked at the bedroom doorat a quarter to nine as usual. He received no answer, and, afterknocking two or three times, entered the room, and saw Lord Argentine'sbody leaning forward at an angle from the bottom of the bed. He foundthat his master had tied a cord securely to one of the short bed-posts,and, after making a running noose and slipping it round his neck, theunfortunate man must have resolutely fallen forward, to die by slowstrangulation. He was dressed in the light suit in which the valet hadseen him go out, and the doctor who was summoned pronounced that lifehad been extinct for more than four hours. All papers, letters, and soforth seemed in perfect order, and nothing was discovered which pointedin the most remote way to any scandal either great or small. Here theevidence ended; nothing more could be discovered. Several persons hadbeen present at the dinner-party at which Lord Argentine had assisted,and to all these he seemed in his usual genial spirits. The valet,indeed, said he thought his master appeared a little excited when hecame home, but confessed that the alteration in his manner was veryslight, hardly noticeable, indeed. It seemed hopeless to seek for anyclue, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine had been suddenly attackedby acute suicidal mania was generally accepted.
It was otherwise, however, when within three weeks, three moregentlemen, one of them a nobleman, and the two others men of goodposition and ample means, perished miserably in the almost preciselythe same manner. Lord Swanleigh was found one morning in hisdressing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the wall, and Mr.Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries had chosen to die as Lord Argentine.There was no explanation in either case; a few bald facts; a living manin the evening, and a body with a black swollen face in the morning.The police had been forced to confess themselves powerless to arrest orto explain the sordid murders of Whitechapel; but before the horriblesuicides of Piccadilly and Mayfair they were dumbfoundered, for noteven the mere ferocity which did duty as an explanation of the crimesof the East End, could be of service in the West. Each of these men whohad resolved to die a tortured shameful death was rich, prosperous, andto all appearances in love with the world, and not the acutest researchshould ferret out any shadow of a lurking motive in either case. Therewas a horror in the air, and men looked at one another's faces whenthey met, each wondering whether the other was to be the victim of thefifth nameless tragedy. Journalists sought in vain for their scrapbooksfor materials whereof to concoct reminiscent articles; and the morningpaper was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of awe; no man knewwhen or where the next blow would light.
A short while after the last of these terrible events, Austin came tosee Mr. Villiers. He was curious to know whether Villiers hadsucceeded in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs. Herbert, eitherthrough Clarke or by other sources, and he asked the question soonafter he had sat down.
"No," said Villiers, "I wrote to Clarke, but he remains obdurate, and Ihave tried other channels, but without any result. I can't find outwhat became of Helen Vaughan after she left Paul Street, but I thinkshe must have gone abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I haven'tpaid much attention to the matter for the last few weeks; I knew poorHerries intimately, and his terrible death has been a great shock tome, a great shock."
"I can well believe it," answered Austin gravely, "you know Argentinewas a friend of mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking of himthat day you came to my rooms."
"Yes; it was in connection with that house in Ashley Street, Mrs.Beaumont's house. You said something about Argentine's dining there."
"Quite so. Of course you know it was there Argentine dined the nightbefore--before his death."
"No, I had not heard that."
"Oh, yes; the name was kept out of the papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont.Argentine was a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was in aterrible state for sometime after."
A curious look came over Villiers' face; he seemed undecided whether tospeak or not. Austin began again.
"I never experienced such a feeling of horror as when I read theaccount of Argentine's death. I didn't understand it at the time, andI don't now. I knew him well, and it completely passes myunderstanding for what possible cause he--or any of the others for thematter of that--could have resolved in cold blood to die in such anawful manner. You know how men babble away each other's characters inLondon, you may be sure any buried scandal or hidden skeleton wouldhave been brought to light in such a case as this; but nothing of thesort has taken place. As for the theory of mania, that is very well,of course, for the coroner's jury, but everybody knows that it's allnonsense. Suicidal mania is not small-pox."
Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers sat silent, also,watching his friend. The expression of indecision still fleeted acrosshis face; he seemed as if weighing his thoughts in the balance, and theconsiderations he was resolving left him still silent. Austin tried toshake off the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless and perplexed as thelabyrinth of Daedalus, and began to talk in
an indifferent voice of themore pleasant incidents and adventures of the season.
"That Mrs. Beaumont," he said, "of whom we were speaking, is a greatsuccess; she has taken London almost by storm. I met her the othernight at Fulham's; she is really a remarkable woman."
"You have met Mrs. Beaumont?"
"Yes; she had quite a court around her. She would be called veryhandsome, I suppose, and yet there is something about her face which Ididn't like. The features are exquisite, but the expression isstrange. And all the time I was looking at her, and afterwards, when Iwas going home, I had a curious feeling that very expression was insome way or another familiar to me."
"You must have seen her in the Row."
"No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman before; it is that whichmakes it puzzling. And to the best of my belief I have never seenanyone like her; what I felt was a kind of dim far-off memory, vaguebut persistent. The only sensation I can compare it to, is that oddfeeling one sometimes has in a dream, when fantastic cities andwondrous lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed."
Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly insearch of something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fellon an old chest somewhat like that in which the artist's strange legacylay hid beneath a Gothic scutcheon.
"Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?" he asked.
"Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death.I don't expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. Ithought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwomannamed Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me anyinformation about her. But it's very possible that Meyrick fell inwith her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as tothe extent or direction of his travels."
"Yes, and it's very possible that the woman may have more than onename."
"Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portraitof her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr.Matthews."
"So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!what are those boys calling?"
While the two men had been talking together a confused noise ofshouting had been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from theeastward and swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a verytorrent of sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making everywindow a frame for a face, curious or excited. The cries and voicescame echoing up the silent street where Villiers lived, growing moredistinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang upfrom the pavement:
"The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!"
Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out theparagraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. Thewindow was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.
"Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic ofsuicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr.Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King's Pomeroy, Devon, wasfound, after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a treein his garden at one o'clock today. The deceased gentleman dined lastnight at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits.He left the club at about ten o'clock, and was seen walking leisurelyup St. James's Street a little later. Subsequent to this his movementscannot be traced. On the discovery of the body medical aid was at oncesummoned, but life had evidently been long extinct. So far as isknown, Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or anxiety of any kind. This painfulsuicide, it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the lastmonth. The authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest anyexplanation of these terrible occurrences."
Austin put down the paper in mute horror.
"I shall leave London to-morrow," he said, "it is a city of nightmares.How awful this is, Villiers!"
Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into thestreet. He had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and thehint of indecision was no longer on his face.
"Wait a moment, Austin," he replied, "I have made up my mind to mentiona little matter that occurred last night. It stated, I think, thatCrashaw was last seen alive in St. James's Street shortly after ten?"
"Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right."
"Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement atall events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed."
"How do you know?"
"Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o'clock thismorning."
"You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?"
"Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feetbetween us."
"Where, in Heaven's name, did you see him?"
"Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving ahouse."
"Did you notice what house it was?"
"Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont's."
"Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. Howcould Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont's house at two o'clock in themorning? Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; youwere always rather fanciful."
"No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say,what I saw would have roused me effectually."
"What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange aboutCrashaw? But I can't believe it; it is impossible."
"Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what Ithink I saw, and you can judge for yourself."
"Very good, Villiers."
The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and thenthe sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull,leaden silence seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm.Villiers turned from the window and began speaking.
"I was at a house near Regent's Park last night, and when I came awaythe fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom. It was aclear pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streetspretty much to myself. It's a curious thing, Austin, to be alone inLondon at night, the gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and thedead silence, and then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on thestones, and the fire starting up under the horse's hoofs. I walkedalong pretty briskly, for I was feeling a little tired of being out inthe night, and as the clocks were striking two I turned down AshleyStreet, which, you know, is on my way. It was quieter than ever there,and the lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as dark and gloomy as aforest in winter. I had done about half the length of the street when Iheard a door closed very softly, and naturally I looked up to see whowas abroad like myself at such an hour. As it happens, there is astreet lamp close to the house in question, and I saw a man standing onthe step. He had just shut the door and his face was towards me, and Irecognized Crashaw directly. I never knew him to speak to, but I hadoften seen him, and I am positive that I was not mistaken in my man. Ilooked into his face for a moment, and then--I will confess thetruth--I set off at a good run, and kept it up till I was within my owndoor."
"Why?"
"Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man's face. Icould never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passionscould have glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked.I knew I had looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man'soutward form remained, but all hell was within it. Furious lust, andhate that was like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror thatseemed to shriek aloud to the night, though his teeth were shut; andthe utter blackness of despair. I am sure that he did not see me; hesaw nothing that you or I can see, but what he saw I hope we nevershall. I do not know when he died; I suppose in an hour, or perhapstwo, but when I passed down Ashley Street and heard the closing door,that man no longer belonged to this world; it was a devil's face Ilooked upon."
There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceasedspeaking. The light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago wasquite hushed. Aust
in had bent his head at the close of the story, andhis hand covered his eyes.
"What can it mean?" he said at length.
"Who knows, Austin, who knows? It's a black business, but I think wehad better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate. I willsee if I cannot learn anything about that house through privatechannels of information, and if I do light upon anything I will let youknow."
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