Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

by William Le Queux

  II

  CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS

  That night Phil Poland glanced longingly around the well-furnisheddining-room with its white napery, its antique plate, and its greatbowl of yellow roses in the centre of the table between the silvercandelabra with white silk shades. Alone he sat at his dinner, beingwaited upon by Felix, the thin-faced, silent Frenchman in black whowas so devoted to his master and so faithful in his service.

  It was the last time he would eat his dinner there, he reflected. Thechoice of two things lay before him--flight, or arrest.

  Sonia was on a visit to an old school-fellow in London, and would notreturn until the morrow. For some reasons he was glad, for he desiredto be alone--alone in order to think.

  Since the abrupt departure of his visitor he had become a changed man.His usually merry face was hard and drawn, his cheeks pale, with redspots in the centre, and about his clean-shaven mouth a hardness quiteunusual.

  Dinner concluded, he had strolled out upon the lawn, and, reclining ina long deck-chair, sipped his coffee and curacao, his face turned tothe crimson sundown showing across the dark edge of the forest. He wasfull of dark forebodings.

  The end of his career--a scandalous career--was near. The truth wasout!

  As he lay back with his hot, fevered head upon the cushion of the longcane chair, his dead cigar between his nerveless fingers, a thousandbitter thoughts crowded upon him. He had striven to reform, he hadtried hard to turn aside and lead an honest life, yet it seemed asthough his good intentions had only brought upon him exposure anddisaster.

  He thought it all over. His had, indeed, been an amazing career ofduplicity. What a sensation would be caused when the truth becamerevealed! At first he had heaped opprobrium upon the head of the manwho had been his friend, but now, on mature consideration, he realizedthat Du Cane's motive in exposing him was twofold--in order to savehimself, and also to curry favour in certain high quarters affected bythe mysterious death of the young Parliamentary Under-Secretary whohad placed to his lips that fatal cigar. Self-preservation being thefirst instinct of the human race, it surely was not surprising thatArnold Du Cane should seek to place himself in a position of security.

  Enormous eventualities would be consequent upon solving the mystery ofthat man's death. Medical science had pronounced it to have been dueto natural causes. Dare the authorities re-open the question, andallege assassination? Aye, that was the question. There was the press,political parties and public opinion all to consider, in addition tothe national prestige.

  He held his breath, gazing blankly away at the blood-red afterglow.How strange, how complicated, how utterly amazing and astounding wasit all. If the truth of that dastardly plot were ever told, it wouldnot be believed. The depths of human wickedness were surelyunfathomable.

  Because he, Phil Poland, had endeavoured to cut himself adrift fromhis ingenious friends, they were about to make him the scapegoat.

  He contemplated flight, but, if he fled, whither should he go? Wherecould he hide successfully? Those who desired that he should pay thepenalty would search every corner of the earth. No. Death itself wouldbe preferable to either arrest or flight, and as he contemplated howhe might cheat his enemies a bitter smile played upon his grey lips.

  The crimson light slowly faded. The balmy stillness of twilight hadsettled upon everything, the soft evening air became filled with thesweet fragrance of the flowers, and the birds were chattering beforeroosting. He glanced across the lawns and well-kept walks at therose-embowered house itself, his harbour of refuge, the cosy placewhich Sonia loved so well, and as his eyes wandered he sighed sadly.He knew, alas! that he must bid farewell to it for ever, bid farewellto his dear daughter--bid farewell to life itself.

  He drew at his dead cigar. Then he cast it from him. It tasted bitter.

  Suddenly the grave-faced Felix, the man who seldom, if ever, spoke,and who was such a mystery in the village, came across the lawn, and,bowing, exclaimed in French that the cure, M'sieur Shuttleworth, hadcalled.

  "Ah! yes," exclaimed his master, quickly arousing himself. "How veryfoolish of me! I quite forgot I had invited Mr. Shuttleworth to comein and smoke to-night. Ask him to come out here, and bring the cigarsand whisky."

  "Oui, M'sieur," replied the funereal-looking butler, bowing low as heturned to go back to the house.

  "How strange!" laughed Poland to himself. "What would the parson thinkif he knew who I am, and the charge against me? What will he sayafterwards, I wonder?"

  Then, a few moments later, a thin, grey-faced, rather ascetic-lookingclergyman, the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, rector of Middleton, cameacross the grass and grasped his host's hand in warmest greeting.

  When he had seated himself in the low chair which Poland pulledforward, and Felix had handed the cigars, the two men commenced togossip, as was their habit.

  Phil Poland liked the rector, because he had discovered that,notwithstanding his rather prim exterior and most approved clericaldrawl, he was nevertheless a man of the world. In the pulpit hepreached forgiveness, and, unlike many country rectors and theirwives, was broad-minded enough to admit the impossibility of a sinlesslife. Both he and Mrs. Shuttleworth treated both chapel andchurch-going folk with equal kindliness, and the deserving poor neverwent empty away.

  Both in the pulpit and out of it the rector of Middleton called aspade a spade with purely British bluntness, and though his parish wasonly a small one he was the most popular man in it--a fact whichsurely spoke volumes for a parson.

  "I was much afraid I shouldn't be able to come to-night," he saidpresently. "Old Mrs. Dixon, over at Forest Farm, is very ill, and I'vebeen with her all the afternoon."

  "Then you didn't go to Lady Medland's garden-party?"

  "No. I wanted to go very much, but was unable. I fear poor old Mrs.Dixon may not last the night. She asked after Miss Sonia, andexpressed a great wish to see her. You have no idea how popular yourdaughter is among the poor of Middleton, Mr. Poland."

  "Sonia returns from London to-morrow afternoon," her father said. "Sheshall go over and see Mrs. Dixon."

  "If the old lady is still here," said the rector. "I fear her life isfast ebbing, but it is reassuring to know she has made peace with herMaker, and will pass happily away into the unknown beyond."

  His host was silent. The bent old woman, the wife of a farm-labourer,had made repentance. If there was repentance for her, was there notrepentance for him? He held his breath at the thought.

  Little did Shuttleworth dream that the merry, easy-going man who satbefore him was doomed--a man whose tortured soul was crying aloud forhelp and guidance; a man with a dread and terrible secret upon hisconscience; a man threatened by an exposure which he could never liveto face.

  Poland allowed his visitor to chatter on--to gossip about the work inhis parish. He was reviewing his present position. He desired some onein whom he could confide; some one of whom he might seek advice andcounsel. Could he expose his real self in all his naked shame; dare hespeak in confidence to Edmund Shuttleworth? Dare he reveal the ghastlytruth, and place the seal of the confessional upon his lips?

  Twilight deepened into night, and the crescent moon rose slowly. Yetthe two men still sat smoking and chatting, Shuttleworth somewhatsurprised to notice how unusually preoccupied his host appeared.

  At last, when the night wind blew chill, they rose and passed into thestudy, where Poland closed the French windows, and then, with suddenresolve and a word of apology to his visitor, he crossed the room andturned the key in the lock, saying in a hard, strained tone--

  "Shuttleworth, I--I want to speak to you in--in strictestconfidence--to ask your advice. Yet--yet it is upon such a seriousmatter that I hesitate--fearing----"

  "Fearing what?" asked the rector, somewhat surprised at his tone.

  "Because, in order to speak, I must reveal to you a truth--a shamefultruth concerning myself. May I rely upon your secrecy?"

  "Any fact you may reveal to me I shall regard as sacred. That is myduty as
a minister of religion, Poland," was the other's quiet reply.

  "You swear to say nothing?" cried his host eagerly, standing beforehim.

  "Yes. I swear to regard your confidence," replied his visitor.

  And then the Honourable Philip Poland slowly sank into the chair onthe opposite side of the fireplace, and in brief, hesitating sentencesrelated one of the strangest stories that ever fell from any saneman's lips--a story which held its hearer aghast, transfixed,speechless in amazement.

  "There is repentance for me, Shuttleworth--tell me that there is!"cried the man who had confessed, his eyes staring and haggard in hisagony. "I have told you the truth because--because when I am gone Iwant you, if you will, to ask your wife to take care of my darlingSonia. Financially, she is well provided for. I have seen to all that,but--ah!" he cried wildly, "she must never know that her fatherwas----"

  "Hush, Poland!" urged the rector, placing his hand tenderly upon hishost's arm. "Though I wear these clothes, I am still a man of theworld like yourself. I haven't been sinless. You wish to repent--toatone for the past. It is my duty to assist you." And he put out hisstrong hand frankly.

  His host drew back. But next instant he grasped it, and in doing soburst into tears.

  "I make no excuse for myself," he faltered. "I am a blackguard, andunworthy the friendship of a true honest man like yourself,Shuttleworth. But I love my darling child. She is all that hasremained to me, and I want to leave her in the care of a good woman.She must forget me--forget what her father was----"

  "Enough!" cried the other, holding up his hand; and then, until farinto the night, the two men sat talking in low, solemn tones,discussing the future, while the attitude of Philip Poland, as he satpale and motionless, his hands clasped upon his knees, was one of deeprepentance.

  That same night, if the repentant transgressor could but have seenEdmund Shuttleworth, an hour later, pacing the rectory study; if hecould have witnessed the expression of fierce, murderous hatred uponthat usually calm and kindly countenance; if he could have overheardthe strangely bitter words which escaped the dry lips of the man inwhom he had confided his secret, he would have been heldaghast--aghast at the amazing truth, a truth of which he had neverdreamed.

  His confession had produced a complication unheard of, undreamed of,so cleverly had the rector kept his countenance and controlled hisvoice. But when alone he gave full vent to his anger, and laughedaloud in the contemplation of a terrible vengeance which, he declaredaloud to himself, should be his.

  "That voice!" he cried in triumph. "Why did I not recognize it before?But I know the truth now--I know the amazing truth!"

  And he laughed harshly to himself as he paced his room.

  Next day Philip Poland spent in his garden, reading beneath the bigyew, as was his wont. But his thoughts ever wandered from his book, ashe grew apprehensive of the evil his enemy was about to hurl upon him.His defiance, he knew, must cost him his liberty--his life. Yet he wasdetermined. For Sonia's sake he had become a changed man.

  At noon Shuttleworth, calm and pleasant, came across the lawn withoutstretched hand. He uttered low words of encouragement and comfort.He said that poor Mrs. Dixon had passed away, and later on he left toattend to his work in the parish. After luncheon, served by the silentFelix, Poland retired to his study with the newspaper, and sat for twohours, staring straight before him, until, just after four o'clock,the door was suddenly flung open, and a slim, athletic young girl,with a wealth of soft fair hair, a perfect countenance, a sweet,lovable expression, and a pair of merry blue eyes, burst into theroom, crying--

  "Hallo, dad! Here I am--so glad to be back again with you!" And,bending over him, she gave him a sounding kiss upon the cheek.

  She was verily a picture of youthful beauty, in her cool, pale greygown, her hair dressed low, and secured by a bow of black velvet,while her big black hat suited her to perfection, her blue eyesadoring in their gaze and her lovely face flushed with pleasure at herhome-coming.

  Her father took her hand, and, gazing lovingly into her eyes, said ina slow voice--

  "And I, too, darling, am glad to have you at home. Life here is verydull indeed without you."

  That night, when seated together in the pretty old-fashioneddrawing-room before retiring to bed--a room of bright chintzes, costlyknick-knacks, and big blue bowls of sweet-smelling pot-pourri--Sonialooked delightful in her black net dinner-gown, cut slightly_decollete_, and wearing around her slim white throat a simplenecklace of pale pink coral.

  "My dear," exclaimed her father in a slow, hesitating way, after herfingers had been running idly over the keys of the piano, "I want tospeak very seriously to you for a few moments."

  She rose in surprise, and came beside his chair. He grasped her softhand, and she sank upon her knees, as she so often did when they spokein confidence.

  "Well--I've been wondering, child, what--what you will do in future,"he said, with a catch in his voice. "Perhaps--perhaps I may have to goaway for a very, very long time--years perhaps--on a long journey, andI shall, I fear, be compelled to leave you, to----"

  "To leave me, dad!" gasped the girl, dismayed. "No--surely--you won'tdo that? What could I do without you--without my dear, devoted dad--myonly friend!"

  "You will have to--to do without me, dearest--to--to forget yourfather," said the white-faced man in a low, broken voice. "I couldn'ttake you with me. It would be impossible."

  The girl was silent; her slim hand was clutching his convulsively; hereyes filled with the light of unshed tears.

  "But what should I do, dad, without you?" she cried. "Why do you speakso strangely? Why do you hide so many things from me still--about ourpast? I'm eighteen now, remember, dad, and you really ought to speakto me as a woman--not as a child. Why all this mystery?"

  "Because--because it is imperative, Sonia," he replied in a tone quiteunusual. "I--I would tell you all, only--only you would think ill ofme. So I prefer that you, my daughter, should remain in ignorance, andstill love me--still----"

  His words were interrupted by Felix, who opened the door, and,advancing with silent tread, said--

  "A gentleman wishes to speak with m'sieur on very urgent business. Youare unacquainted with him, he says. His name is Max Morel, and he mustsee you at once. He is in the hall."

  Poland's face went a trifle paler. Whom could the stranger be? Why didhe desire an interview at that hour?--for it was already eleveno'clock.

  "Sonia dear," he said quietly, turning to his daughter, "will youleave me for a few moments? I must see what this gentleman wants."

  The girl followed Felix out somewhat reluctantly, when, a few secondslater, a short, middle-aged Frenchman, with pointed grey beard andwearing gold pince-nez, was ushered in.

  Philip Poland started and instantly went pale at sight of his visitor.

  "I need no introduction, m'sieur. You recognize me, I see," remarkedthe stranger, in French.

  "Yes," was the other's reply. "You are Henri Guertin, chief inspectorof the surete of Paris. We have met before--once."

  "And you are no doubt aware of the reason of my visit?"

  "I can guess," replied the unhappy man. "You are here to arrest me--Iknow. I----"

  The renowned detective--one of the greatest criminal investigators inEurope--glanced quickly at the closed door, and, dropping his voice,said--

  "I am here, not to arrest you, M'sieur Poland--but to afford you anopportunity of escape."

  "Of escape!" gasped the other, his drawn countenance blanched to thelips.

  "Yes, escape. Listen. My instructions are to afford you an easyopportunity of--well, of escaping the ignominy of arrest, exposure,trial, and penalty, by a very simple means--death by your own hand."

  "Suicide!" echoed Poland, after a painful pause. "Ah! I quiteunderstand! The Government are not anxious that the scandal should bemade public, eh?" he cried bitterly.

  "I have merely told you my instructions," was the detective'sresponse, as, with a quick, foreign gesture, he displayed on his leftha
nd a curious old engraved amethyst set in a ring--probably anepiscopal ring of ages long ago. "At midnight I have an appointment atthe cross-roads, half-a-mile away, with Inspector Watts of ScotlandYard, who holds a warrant for your arrest and extradition to France.If you are still alive when we call, then you must stand yourtrial--that is all. Trial will mean exposure, and----"

  "And my exposure will mean the downfall and ruin of those politicalthieves now in power--eh?" cried Poland. "They are not at all anxiousthat I should fall into the hands of the police."

  "And you are equally anxious that the world--and more especially yourdaughter--shall not know the truth," remarked the detective, speakingin a meaning tone. "I have given you the alternative, and I shall nowleave. At midnight I shall return--officially--when I hope you willhave escaped by the loophole so generously allowed you by theauthorities."

  "If I fled, would you follow?"

  "Most certainly. It would be my duty. You cannot escape--only bydeath. I regret, m'sieur, that I have been compelled to put thealternative so bluntly, but you know full well the great issues atstake in this affair. Therefore I need say nothing further, except tobid you _au revoir_--till midnight."

  Then the portly man bowed--bowed as politely as though he were in thepresence of a crowned head--and, turning upon his heel, left the room,followed by his host, who personally opened the door for him as hebade him good-night.

  One hour's grace had been given Philip Poland. After that, theblackness of death.

  His blanched features were rigid as he stood staring straight beforehim. His enemy had betrayed him. His defiance had, alas! cost him hislife.

  He recollected Shuttleworth's slowly uttered words on the nightbefore, and his finger-nails clenched themselves into his palms. Thenhe passed across the square, old-fashioned hall to the study, dim-lit,save for the zone of light around the green-shaded reading-lamp; thesombre room where the old grandfather clock ticked so solemnly in thecorner.

  Sonia had returned to the drawing-room as he let his visitor out. Hecould hear her playing, and singing in her sweet contralto a tunefulFrench love-song, ignorant of the hideous crisis that had fallen,ignorant of the awful disaster which had overwhelmed him.

  Three-quarters of an hour had passed when, stealthily on tiptoe, thegirl crept into the room, and there found her father seated by thefireplace, staring in blank silence.

  The long old brass-faced clock in the shadow struck three times uponits strident bell. Only fifteen minutes more, and then the policewould enter and charge him with that foul crime. Then the solution ofa remarkable mystery which had puzzled the whole world would becomplete.

  He started, and, glancing around, realized that Sonia, with her softhand in his, was again at his side.

  "Why, dad," cried the girl in alarm, "how pale you are! Whatever ailsyou? What can I get you?"

  "Nothing, child, nothing," was the desperate man's hoarse response."I'm--I'm quite well--only a little upset at some bad news I've had,that's all. But come. Let me kiss you, dear. It's time you were inbed."

  And he drew her down until he could print a last fond caress upon herwhite open brow.

  "But, dad," exclaimed the girl anxiously, "I really can't leave you.You're not well. You're not yourself to-night."

  As she uttered those words, Felix entered the room, saying in anagitated voice--

  "May I speak with you alone, m'sieur?"

  His master started violently, and, rising, went forth into the hall,where the butler, his face scared and white, whispered--

  "Something terrible has occurred, m'sieur! Davis, the groom, has justfound a gentleman lying dead in the drive outside. He's been murdered,m'sieur!"

  "Murdered!" gasped Poland breathlessly. "Who is he?"

  "The gentleman who called upon you three-quarters of an hour ago. He'slying dead--out yonder."

  "Where's a lantern? Let me go and see!" cried Poland. And a fewmoments later master and man were standing with the groom beside thelifeless body of Henri Guertin, the great detective, the terror ofall French criminals. The white countenance, with its open, staringeyes, bore a horrified expression, but the only wound that could bedistinguished was a deep cut across the palm of the right hand, aclean cut, evidently inflicted by a keen-edged knife.

  Davis, on his way in, had, he explained, stumbled across the body inthe darkness, ten minutes before.

  Philip Poland had knelt, his hand upon the dead man's heart, whensuddenly all three were startled by the sound of footsteps upon thegravel, and next moment two men loomed up into the uncertain light ofthe lantern.

  One was tall and middle-aged, in dark tweeds and a brown hat of softfelt; the other, short and stout, wearing gold pince-nez.

  A loud cry of dismay broke from Poland's fevered lips as his eyes fellupon the latter.

  "Hallo! What's this?" cried a sharp, imperious voice in French, thevoice of the man in pince-nez, as, next moment, he stood gazing downupon the dead unknown, who, strangely enough, resembled him incountenance, in dress--indeed, in every particular.

  The startled men halted for a moment, speechless. The situation wasstaggering.

  Henri Guertin stood there alive, and as he bent over the prostratebody an astounding truth became instantly revealed: the dead man hadbeen cleverly made-up to resemble the world-renowned police official.

  The reason of this was an entire mystery, although one fact becameplain: he had, through posing as Guertin, been foully and swiftlyassassinated.

  Who was he? Was he really the man who came there to suggest suicide inpreference to arrest, or had that strange suggestion been conveyed byGuertin himself?

  The point was next moment decided.

  "You see, m'sieur," exclaimed Poland defiantly, turning to the greatdetective, "I have preferred to take my trial--to allow the public thesatisfaction of a solution of the problem, rather than accept thegenerous terms you offered me an hour ago."

  "Terms I offered you!" cried the Frenchman. "What are you saying? Iwas not here an hour ago. If you have had a visitor, it must have beenthis impostor--this man who has lost his life because he hasimpersonated me!"

  Philip Poland, without replying, snatched at the detective's left handand examined it. There was no ring upon it.

  Swiftly he bent beside the victim, and there, sure enough, upon thedead white finger was revealed the curious ring he had noticed--anoval amethyst engraved with a coat-of-arms surmounted by a cardinal'shat--the ring worn by the man who had called upon him an hour before!

  THE STORY OF OWEN BIDDULPH