CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"SOME SENSATIONAL REVELATIONS"
The days dragged by. The papers were full of the robbery, declaringthat it had been executed so neatly as to betray the hand of experts.
A gang of Continental thieves was suspected, because, as a matter offact, a robbery similar in detail had, six months before, taken placeon the night express between Cologne and Berlin. In that case also astrange ticket-inspector had been seen. The stolen property had, nodoubt, been thrown from the train to accomplices. Such method wasperfectly safe for the thief, because, unless actually detected in theact of tossing out a bag or parcel, no evidence could very well bebrought against him.
Therefore the police, and through them the newspapers, decided thatthe same gang was responsible for the theft of the Archduchess'snecklace as for the robbery in Germany.
Myself, I read eagerly every line of what appeared in the morning andevening press.
Many ridiculous theories were put forward by some journalists inworking up the "story," and more than once I found cruel and unfoundedreflections cast upon the sole female member of the party--my dearwife.
This was all extremely painful to me--all so utterly incomprehensiblethat, as I sat alone in the silence of my deserted home, I felt thatno further misfortune could fall upon me. The iron of despair hadentered my very soul.
Marlowe called one afternoon, and I was compelled to make excuse forSylvia's absence, telling him she was down at Mrs. Shuttleworth's.
"You don't look quite yourself, old man," he had said. "What's up?"
"Oh, nothing," I laughed faintly. "I'm a bit run down, that's all.Want a change, I suppose. I think I shall go abroad."
"I thought your wife had had sufficient of the Continent," heremarked. "Curiously enough," he added, as he sat back and blew acloud of cigarette-smoke from his lips, "I thought I saw her the daybefore yesterday standing on the railway platform at Banbury. I wascoming down from Birmingham to Oxford, and the train slowed down inpassing Banbury. I happened to be looking out at the time, and I couldhave sworn that I saw her."
"At Banbury!" I ejaculated, leaning forward.
"Yes. She was wearing a dark blue dress, with a jacket to match, and asmall dark blue hat. She was with an elderly lady, and was evidentlywaiting for a train. She gave me the impression that she was startingon a journey."
"How old was her companion?"
"Oh, she was about forty, I should think--neatly dressed in black."
"It couldn't have been she," I said reflectively.
"My dear Owen, Mrs. Biddulph's beauty is too marked for one to bemistaken--especially a friend, like myself."
"Then you are quite certain it was she--eh, Jack?"
My tall friend stretched his long legs out on the carpet, andreplied--
"Well, I'd have bet a hundred to a penny that it was she. She wasn'tat home with you on that day, was she?"
I was compelled to make a negative reply.
"Then I'm certain I saw her, old man," he declared, as he rose andtossed his cigarette-end away.
It was upon my tongue to ask him what he had known of her, but Irefrained. She was my wife, and to ask such a question would onlyexpose to him my suspicions and misgivings.
So presently he went, and I was left there wretched in my lonelinessand completely mystified. The house seemed full of grim shadows nowthat she, the sun of my life, had gone out of it. Old Browning movedabout silent as a ghost, watching me, I knew, and wondering.
So Sylvia had been seen at Banbury. According to Jack, she was dressedas though travelling; therefore it seemed apparent that she had hiddenin that quiet little town until compelled to flee owing to policeinquiries. Her dress, as described by Jack, was different to any Ihad ever seen her wear; hence it seemed as though she had disguisedherself as much as was possible. Her companionship with the elderwoman was also somewhat strange.
My only fear was that the police might recognize her. While sheremained in one place, she would, no doubt, be safe from detection.But if she commenced to travel, then most certainly the police wouldarrest her.
Fortunately they were not in possession of her photograph, yet allalong I remained in fear that the manager of the Coliseum might make astatement, and this would again connect me with the gang.
Yes, I suppose the reader will dub me a fool to have married Sylvia.Well, he or she may do so. My only plea in extenuation is that I lovedher dearly and devotedly. My love might have been misplaced, ofcourse, yet I still felt that, in face of all the black circumstances,she was nevertheless true to those promises made before the altar. Iwas hers--and she was mine.
Even then, with the papers raising a hue-and-cry after her, as well aswhat I had discovered regarding her elopement, I steadfastly refusedto believe in her guilt. Those well-remembered words of affectionwhich had fallen from her lips from time to time I knew had beengenuine and the truth.
That same night I read in the evening paper a paragraph as follows--
"It is understood that the police have obtained an important clue tothe perpetrators of the daring theft of the diamond necklet belongingto the Archduchess Marie Louise, and that an arrest is shortlyexpected. Some highly sensational revelations are likely."
I read and re-read those significant lines. What were the "sensationalrevelations" promised? Had they any connection with the weird mysteryof that closed house in Porchester Terrace?
I felt that perhaps I was not doing right in refraining from layingbefore the Criminal Investigation Department the facts of my strangeexperience in that long-closed house. In that neglected garden, my owngrave lay open. What bodies of other previous victims lay thereinterred?
I recollected that in the metropolis many bodies of murdered personshad been found buried in cellars and in gardens. A recent case of thediscovery of an unfortunate woman's body beneath the front doorstepsof a certain house in North London was fresh within my mind.
Truly the night mysteries of London are many and gruesome. The publicnever dream of half the brutal crimes that are committed and neverdetected. Only the police, if they are frank, will tell you of themany cases in which persons missing are suspected of having beenvictims of foul play. Yet they are mysteries never solved.
I went across to White's and dined alone. I was in no mood for thecompanionship of friends. No one save myself knew that my wife haddisappeared. Jack suspected something wrong, but was not aware of whatit exactly was.
I went down to Andover next day and called upon the Shuttleworths.Mrs. Shuttleworth was kind and affable as usual, but whether mysuspicions were ungrounded or not, I thought the rector a triflebrusque in manner, as though annoyed by my presence there.
I recollected what the man Lewis had told his friends--that he hadseen Shuttleworth down in the Ditches--one of the lowestneighbourhoods--of Southampton. The rector had told him all that hadtranspired!
Why was this worthy country rector, living the quiet life of a remoteHampshire village, in such constant communication with a band ofthieves?
I sat with him in his well-remembered study for perhaps an hour. Buthe was a complete enigma. Casually I referred to the great jeweltheft, which was more or less upon every one's tongue.
"I seldom read newspaper horrors," he replied, puffing at his familiarpipe. "I saw something in the head-lines of the paper, but I did notread the details. I've been writing some articles for the _Guardian_lately, and my time has been so fully occupied."
Was this the truth? Or was he merely evading the necessity ofdiscussing the matter?
He had inquired after Sylvia, and I had been compelled to admit thatshe was away. But I did so in such a manner that I implied she wasvisiting friends.
Outside, the lawn, so bright and pleasant in summer, now looked dampand dreary, littered by the brown drifting leaves of autumn.
Somehow I read in his grey face a strange expression, and detected aneagerness to get rid of me. For the first time I found myself anunwelcome visitor at the rectory.
; "Have you seen Mr. Pennington of late?" I asked presently.
"No, not for some time. He wrote me from Brussels about a month ago,and said that business was calling him to Spain. Have you seen him?"he asked.
"Not very recently," I replied vaguely.
Then again I referred to the great robbery, whereat he said--
"Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can't resist thefascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are anardent novel-reader--eh? People fond of novels always devour newspapermysteries."
I admitted a fondness for healthy and exciting fiction, when helaughed, saying--
"Well, I myself find that nearly half one reads in some of thenewspapers now-a-days may be classed as fiction. Even party politicsare full of fictions, more or less. Surely the public must find itvery difficult to winnow the truth from all the political lies, bothspoken and written. To me, elections are all mere campaigns ofuntruth."
And so he again cleverly turned the drift of our conversation.
About five o'clock I left, driving back to Andover Junction, andarriving at Waterloo in time for dinner.
I took a taxi at once to Wilton Street, but there was no letter fromSylvia. She gave no sign. And, indeed, why should she, in face of herletter of farewell?
I dressed, and sat down alone to my dinner for the first time in myown dining-room since my wife's disappearance.
Lonely and sad, yet filled with fierce hatred of those blackguardlyadventurers, of whom her own father was evidently one, I sat silent,while old Browning served the meal with that quiet stateliness whichwas one of his chief characteristics. The old man had never oncementioned his missing mistress, yet I saw, by the gravity of his pale,furrowed face, that he was anxious and puzzled.
As I ate, without appetite, he chatted to me, as had been his habit inmy bachelor days, for through long years of service--ever since I wasa lad--he had become more a friend than a mere servant. From many aboyish scrape he had shielded me, and much good advice had he given mein those reckless days of my rather wild youth.
His utter devotion to my father had always endeared him to me, for tohim there was no family respected so much as ours, and hisfaithfulness was surely unequalled.
Perhaps he did not approve of my marriage. I held a strong suspicionthat he had not. Yet old servants are generally apt to be resentful atthe advent of a new mistress.
I was finishing my coffee and thinking deeply, Browning having left mealone, when suddenly he returned, and, bending, said in his quietway--
"A gentleman has called, Mr. Owen. He wishes to see you veryparticularly." And he handed me a card, upon which I saw the name:"Henri Guertin."
I sprang to my feet, my mind made up in an instant. Here was oneactually of the gang, and I would entrap him in my own house!
I would compel him to speak the truth, under pain of arrest.
"Where is he?" I asked breathlessly.
"I have shown him into the study. He's a foreign gentleman, Mr. Owen."
"Yes, I know," I said. "But now, don't be alarmed, Browning--just stayoutside in the hall. If I ring the bell, go straight to the telephone,ring up the police-station, and tell them to send a constable here atonce. My study door will be locked until the constable arrives. Youunderstand?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Owen, but----" And the old man hesitated, looking atme apprehensively.
"There is nothing whatever to fear," I laughed, rather harshlyperhaps. "Carry out my orders, that's all."
And then, in fierce determination, I went along the hall, and, openingthe study door, entered, closing it behind me, and as I stood with myback to it I turned the key and removed it.
"Well, M'sieur Guertin," I exclaimed, addressing the stout man in goldpince-nez in rather a severe tone, "and what, pray, do you want withme?"
Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Page 28