Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CLERGYMAN FROM HAMPSHIRE

  What was the meaning of it all? Why had that tall, mysterious strangerwatched so intently? I looked across at him, but he did not budge,even though detected.

  In a flash, all the strange warnings of Sylvia Pennington crowded uponmy mind.

  I stood facing the man as he lurked there in the shadow, determinedthat he should reveal his face. Those curious words of the mysteriousgirl had placed me upon my mettle. Who were the unknown enemies ofmine who were conspiring against me?

  Should I take her advice and leave Gardone, or should I remain on myguard, and hand them over to the police at first sign of attack?

  The silent watcher did not move. He stood back there in the darkness,motionless as a statue, while I remained full in the light of themoon, which had now come forth, causing the lake and mountains to lookalmost fairy-like.

  In order to impress upon him the fact that I was in no hurry, I lit acigarette, and seated myself upon the low wall of the terrace, softlywhistling an air of the cafe chantant. The night was now glorious,the mountain crests showing white in the moonlight.

  Who was this man, I wondered? I regretted that we had not discoveredhis presence before Sylvia had left. She would, no doubt, haverecognized him, and told me the reason of his watchfulness.

  At last, I suppose, I must have tired him out, for suddenly hehastened from his hiding-place, and, creeping beneath the shadow ofthe hotel, succeeded in reaching the door through which Sylvia hadpassed.

  As he entered, the light from the lounge within gave me a swift glanceof his features. He was a thin, grey-faced, rather sad-looking man,dressed in black, but, to my surprise, I noticed that his collar wasthat of an English clergyman!

  This struck me as most remarkable. Clergymen are not usually personsto be feared.

  I smiled to myself, for, after all, was it not quite possible that thereverend gentleman had found himself within earshot of us, and hadbeen too embarrassed to show himself at once? What sinister motivecould such a man possess?

  I looked around the great lounge, with its many tables and greatpalms, but it was empty. He had passed through and ascended in thelift to his room.

  Inquiry of the night-porter revealed that the man's name was theReverend Edmund Shuttleworth, and that he came from Andover, inEngland. He had arrived at six o'clock that evening, and was onlyremaining the night, having expressed his intention of going on toRiva on the morrow.

  So, laughing at my fears--fears which had been aroused by that strangewarning of Sylvia's--I ascended to my room.

  I did not leave next morning, as my fair-faced little friend hadsuggested, neither did Pennington return.

  About eleven o'clock I strolled forth into the warm sunshine on theterrace, and there, to my surprise, saw Sylvia sitting upon one of theseats, with a cream sunshade over her head, a book in her lap, whileby her side lounged the mysterious watcher of the night before--theEnglish clergyman, Mr. Shuttleworth of Andover.

  Neither noticed me. He was speaking to her slowly and earnestly, shelistening attentively to his words. I saw that she sighed deeply, herfine eyes cast upon the ground.

  It all seemed as though he were reproaching her with something, forshe was silent, in an attitude almost of penitence.

  Now that I obtained a full view of the reverend gentleman's featuresin full daylight they seemed less mysterious, less sinister than inthe half-light of midnight. He looked a grave, earnest, sober-livingman, with that slight affectation of the Church which one finds morein the rural districts than in cities, for the black clerical strawhat and the clerical drawl seem always to go together. It is strangethat the village curate is always more affected in his speech than thepopular preacher of the West End, and the country vicar's wife is evenmore exclusive in her tea-and-tennis acquaintances than the wife ofthe lord bishop himself.

  For a few moments I watched unseen. I rather liked the appearance ofthe Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth, whoever he might be. He had the lookof an honest, open, God-fearing man.

  Yet why was he in such earnest consultation with the mysteriousSylvia?

  With his forefinger he was touching the palm of his left hand,apparently to emphasize his words, while she looked pale, evenfrightened. She was listening without comment, without protest, whileI stood watching them from behind. Many other visitors were idlingabout the terrace, reading letters or newspapers, or chatting orflirting--the usual morning occupations of a fashionable lake-sidehotel far removed from the strenuous turmoil of the business or socialworlds.

  Suddenly she objected to some words which he uttered, objectedstrongly, with rapid interruption and quick protest.

  But he laid his hand quietly upon her arm, and seemed to convince herof the truth or justice of his words.

  Then, as she turned, she recognized me, and I raised my hat politelyin passing.

  Shuttleworth's eyes met mine, and he stared at me. But I passed on, inpretence that I had not recognized him as the watcher of the previousnight.

  I idled about the terrace and the little landing-stage till noon, whenthe steamer for Riva came up from Desenzano; and Shuttleworth, takingleave of Sylvia, boarded the little craft with his two kit-bags, andwaved her farewell as the vessel drew away, making a wide wake uponthe glassy surface of the deep blue waters.

  When he had gone, I crossed to her and spoke. She looked inexpressiblycharming in her white cotton gown and neat straw sailor hat with blackvelvet band. There was nothing ostentatious about her dress, but itwas always well cut and fitted her to perfection. She possessed astyle and elegance all her own.

  "Ah! Mr. Biddulph!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "Why have you notheeded my words last night? Why have you not left? Go!--go, before itis too late!" she urged, looking straight into my face with thosewonderful eyes of hers.

  "But I don't understand you, Miss Pennington," I replied. "Why shouldI leave here? What danger threatens me?"

  "A grave one--a very grave one," she said in a low, hoarse whisper."If you value your life you should get away from this place."

  "Who are these enemies of mine?" I demanded. "You surely should tellme, so that I can take precautions against them."

  "Your only precaution lies in flight," she said.

  "But will you not tell me what is intended? If there is a conspiracyagainst me, is it not your duty, as a friend, to reveal it?"

  "Did I not tell you last night that I am not your friend--that ourfriendship is forbidden?"

  "I don't understand you," I said. "As far as I know, I haven't anenemy in the world. Why should I fear the unknown?"

  "Ah! will you not take heed of what I have told you?" shecried in desperation. "Leave here. Return to England--hideyourself--anywhere--for a time, until the danger passes."

  "I have no fear of this mysterious danger, Miss Pennington," I said."If these secret enemies of mine attack me, then I am perfectly readyand able to defend myself."

  "But they will not attack openly. They will strike at a moment whenyou least expect it--and strike with accuracy and deadly effect."

  "Last night, after you had left me, I found a man standing in theshadow watching us," I said. "He was the clergyman whom I saw sittingwith you just now. Who is he?"

  "Mr. Shuttleworth--an old friend of mine in England. An intimatefriend of my father's. To him, I owe very much. I had no idea he washere until an hour ago, when we met quite accidentally on the terrace.I haven't seen him for a year. We once lived in his parish nearAndover, in Hampshire. He was about our only friend."

  "Why did he spy upon us?"

  "I had no idea that he did. It must have been only by chance," sheassured me. "From Edmund Shuttleworth you certainly have nothing tofear. He and his wife are my best friends. She is staying up at Riva,it seems, and he is on his way to join her."

  "Your father is absent," I said abruptly.

  "Yes," she replied, with slight hesitation. "He has gone away onbusiness. I don't expect he will be back till to-night."
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  "And how long do you remain here?"

  "Who knows? Our movements are always so sudden and erratic. We mayleave to-night for the other end of Europe, or we may remain here forweeks yet. Father is so uncertain always."

  "But why are you so eager that I shall leave you?" I asked, as westrolled together along the terrace. "You have admitted that you arein need of a friend, and yet you will not allow me to approach youwith the open hand of friendship."

  "Because--ah! have I not already explained the reason why--why I darenot allow you to show undue friendship towards me?"

  "Well, tell me frankly," I said, "who is this secret enemy of mine?"

  She was silent. In that hesitation I suspected an intention todeceive.

  "Is it against your own father that you are warning me?" I exclaimedin hesitation. "You fear him, evidently, and you urge me to leave hereand return to England. Why should I not remain here in defiance?"

  "In some cases defiance is distinctly injudicious," she remarked. "Itis so in this. Your only safety is in escape. I can tell you no more."

  "These words of yours, Miss Pennington, are remarkably strange," Isaid. "Surely our position is most curious. You are my friend, and yetyou conceal the identity of my enemy."

  She only shrugged her shoulders, without any reply falling from herlips.

  "Will you not take my advice and get back to England at once?" sheasked very seriously, as she turned to me a few minutes later. "I havesuggested this in your own interests."

  "But why should I go in fear of this unknown enemy?" I asked. "Whatharm have I done? Why should any one be my bitter enemy?"

  "Ah, how do I know?" she cried in despair. "We all of us have enemieswhere we least suspect them. Sometimes the very friend we trust mostimplicitly reveals himself as our worst antagonist. Truly one shouldalways pause and ponder deeply before making a friend."

  "You are perfectly right," I remarked. "A fierce enemy is alwaysbetter than a false friend. Yet I would dearly like to know what Ihave done to merit antagonism. Where has your father gone?"

  "To Brescia, I believe--to meet his friends."

  "Who are they?"

  "His business friends. I only know them very slightly; they areinterested in mining properties. They meet at intervals. The last timehe met them was in Stockholm a month ago."

  This struck me as curious. Why should he meet his business friends soclandestinely--why should they come at night in a car to cross-roads?

  But I told her nothing of what I had witnessed. I decided to keep myknowledge to myself.

  "The boat leaves at two o'clock," she said, after a pause, her handupon her breast as though to stay the wild beating of her heart. "Willyou not take my advice and leave by that? Go to Milan, and thenstraight on to England," she urged in deep earnestness, her big,wide-open eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.

  "No, Miss Pennington," I replied promptly; "the fact is, I do not feeldisposed to leave here just at present. I prefer to remain--and totake the risk, whatever it may be."

  "But why?" she cried, for we were standing at the end of the terrace,and out of hearing.

  "Because you are in need of a friend--because you have admitted thatyou, too, are in peril. Therefore I have decided to remain near you."

  "No," she cried breathlessly. "Ah! you do not know the great risk youare running! You must go--do go, Mr. Biddulph--go, for--_for mysake_!"

  I shook my head.

  "I have no fear of myself," I declared. "I am anxious on your behalf."

  "Have no thought of me," she cried. "Leave, and return to England."

  "And see you no more--eh?"

  "If you will leave to-day, I--I will see you in England--perhaps."

  "Perhaps!" I cried. "That is not a firm promise."

  "Then, if you really wish," she replied in earnestness, "I willpromise. I'll promise anything. I'll promise to see you inEngland--when the danger has passed, if--if disaster has not alreadyfallen upon me," she added in a hoarse whisper.

  "But my place is here--near you," I declared. "To fly from dangerwould be cowardly. I cannot leave you."

  "No," she urged, her pale face hard and anxious. "Go, Mr. Biddulph; goand save yourself. Then, if you so desire, we shall meet again insecret--in England."

  "And that is an actual promise?" I asked, holding forth my hand.

  "Yes," she answered, taking it eagerly. "It is a real promise. Give meyour address, and very soon I shall be in London to resume ouracquaintanceship--but, remember, not our friendship. That must neverbe--_never_!"