The Four Faces: A Mystery

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XII

  THE BROAD HIGHWAY

  Had Dulcie consulted me before accepting Mrs. Stapleton's invitation todinner I should have improvised some plausible excuse for declining. Shehad not, however, given me the chance of refusing, for she had then andthere accepted for both of us unconditionally, so that I could not,without being rude, make any excuse for staying away.

  "Dulcie," I said, when we were again alone, "I wish you hadn't acceptedthat invitation without first of all consulting me. I really am notkeen to go."

  "Oh, don't be silly!" she exclaimed joyously, and, putting her armsabout my neck, she gave me three delicious kisses. "We have quarrelledall the afternoon--you were perfectly horrid to me, you know youwere--and if we mope here together all the evening we shall most likelyfall out again, and that will be absurd. Besides, I feel just in thehumour for a jolly dinner party, and I'm sure any party given by Connieis bound to be jolly, just as jolly as she is. I _do_ think she is sucha fascinating person, don't you, Mike? Oh, I am sorry; I quite forgetyou don't like her."

  "I have not said I don't like her--I do like her, Dulcie, in a sense,and up to a point. But I still hold to the opinion I formed of her whenI met her first--I wouldn't trust her implicitly."

  "Never mind, Mike," she cried in high spirits. "We'll set all yourprejudices aside to-night, and try to enjoy ourselves. I wonder who'llbe there. I quite forgot to ask her."

  "Probably nobody you know, or she would have told you. She said 'friendsfrom town,' so there are not likely to be any of our friends from abouthere. We ought to start soon after seven, as she said dinner would be ateight; with the snow as thick as it is it may take us quite an hour toget to Newbury--twelve miles, remember."

  We were the last to arrive, and I confess that the moment we were showninto the room and I realized who Mrs. Stapleton's other guests were Imentally upbraided myself for having come, or rather, for having letDulcie come. The first to whom our hostess introduced Dulcie was "Mrs.Gastrell," and directly afterwards she presented to Dulcie "Mrs.Gastrell's cousin," as she called him--none other than HugessonGastrell, who was standing by. To my surprise Easterton and Jack Osbornewere there, and the widow seemed pleased at finding that I knew them--Iguessed it was owing to Easterton's being there that Jasmine Gastrellwas made to pass as Gastrell's cousin.

  With singular formality she made Dulcie and me acquainted witheverybody, which struck me as odd in these days when introductions atdinner parties, receptions and balls have gone quite out of fashion.

  "Mr. Berrington," Mrs. Stapleton said, taking me across the room to twomen engaged apparently in earnest conversation, "I want to make you andLord Cranmere and Mr. Wollaston known to one another," and,interrupting them, she introduced us.

  There was nothing striking about the Earl of Cranmere. A man past middleage, he had, I thought a rather weak face. A small, fair beard, neatlytrimmed and pointed, concealed his chin: as I looked at him I wonderedwhether, were that beard removed, I should see any chin at all. Theshort upper lip was hidden by a fair moustache; he had also whiskers.The fair hair, which was rather thin on the top, was carefully parted inthe middle, and plastered down on both sides. His complexion was clear,the complexion of a man who lives a good deal in the open, and his eyeswere pale blue, with almost golden lashes and eye-brows. He inclined tostoutness, and spoke with a slight lisp. This then was the man, orrather one of the men, I thought, as I noted these points about himwhile we exchanged remarks, concerning whom Jack Osborne had been somysteriously questioned while he lay bound upon the bed in that darkroom in Grafton Street. I knew Lord Cranmere to be a particular friendof Jack's, though in appearance no two men could have presented agreater contrast.

  What mostly kept my thoughts busy, however, was the presence of HugessonGastrell.

  Since his name had been mentioned by Harold Logan on his dying bed, Ihad carefully debated whether or not to tell Easterton, who had let himhis house, what I now knew about him; also whether to tell Sir RolandChalloner that Osborne and I had actually met Gastrell. Unable todecide, I had put the case to Osborne, and eventually we had decided tosay nothing, at any rate for the moment, to anybody at all.

  "What would be the good?" Jack had argued. "You have the word of adying man, and that's all; and what is there that you can prove againstthis man Gastrell--at present? Besides, if you say anything, you mayfind yourself forced to reveal that you know who the dead man was, thatyou know him to have been Lord Logan's son, and you told me that SirRoland wants particularly to avoid doing that. No, keep silent and awaitdevelopments, that's my advice, as you have asked for it. He'll probablyend by hanging himself if you give him rope enough. I wouldn't tell evenDulcie, if I were you."

  I was thinking of all this again, when my train of thought was suddenlycut by a voice at my elbow:

  "Mr. Berrington, I want to introduce you to Mrs. Gastrell. Come with me,will you?"

  I turned abruptly. Connie Stapleton was at my elbow, and she spoke insoft, purring tones.

  "She's the woman you asked me if I knew, the other night at Mr.Gastrell's reception," she went on in an undertone, as we walked towardsthe woman. "I was introduced to her a couple of nights later. She is acousin of Mr. Gastrell's."

  Almost before I had time to collect my thoughts, she had introduced me,adding, a moment later, with one of her charming smiles:

  "And will you take Mrs. Gastrell in to dinner?"

  I was debating whether or not to refer to our previous meeting, atMaresfield Gardens, when Mrs. Gastrell herself solved the difficulty.

  "I wonder," she said, her great eyes very wide open, her gaze restingfull on mine, "if you remember that we have met before. It was justbefore Christmas. You and Mr. Osborne called in the middle of the nightto ask if Hugesson had lost his purse: we both thought it so kindof you."

  I remembered a good deal more than that, but I did not tell her so. Iremembered too that she had seemed to speak sarcastically, almostmockingly, that night when she had said she thought it kind of Jack tohave come out "all that way" just to inquire if Gastrell hadaccidentally left his purse at the club. She appeared now, however, tomean what she said, and so I only answered:

  "How, having met you once, Mrs. Gastrell, could I forget our meeting?What rather astonishes me is that you should remember me by sight,seeing that we spoke for a few minutes only."

  She smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment, and I found myselfwondering how many men that terribly alluring smile of hers had enslavedfrom first to last.

  "Would you believe it," she went on almost without a pause, "we werevery nearly burnt in a dreadful fire that broke out in that house onChristmas Eve. We only just managed to escape with a few of ourbelongings; we had not, I am thankful to say, anything very valuablethere, because the house had been sub-let to us, so that the furniturewas not ours."

  "You certainly were fortunate, in a sense," I answered, marvelling ather self-possession, and mentally asking myself if she spoke withconviction and whether I had, after all, formed a wrong opinion abouther as well as about our hostess. Then I heard Gastrell's voice behindme, and that brought me to my senses. If such a man were a guest of Mrs.Stapleton's it seemed quite on the cards that men and women of equallybad character might also be included among her friends. I had severalreasons for suspecting Mrs. Gastrell of duplicity, and I determined toremain on my guard.

  The dinner, I confess, was excellent. I was glad to see that Dulcie satbetween Jack Osborne and Lord Easterton, and was thus out of harm's way.We dined at a round table, and almost facing me were twounintelligent-looking women--I had heard their names, but the namesconveyed nothing to me. These women, both past middle age, somehow hadthe appearance of being extremely rich. They sat on either side ofHugesson Gastrell, whose conversation appeared to be amusing themimmensely. One other woman made up the party of twelve--a dark, demure,very quiet little person, with large, dreamy eyes, a singularly palecomplexion, and very red lips. She was dressed almost simply, which theother two women certainly were
not, and altogether she struck me aslooking somewhat out of place in that _galere_.

  Champagne flowed freely, and gradually we all became exceedinglyvivacious. Once, when I glanced across at Dulcie, after conversinganimatedly for ten minutes or so with the beautiful woman at my side, Ithought I noticed a troubled look in her eyes, but instantly itdisappeared, and she smiled quite happily. Then, turning to herneighbour, Jack Osborne, she said something to him in an undertone whichmade him laugh, and he too looked across at me. It had struck me all theevening that Jack was in exceptionally high spirits, and more than onceI had wondered if he had some special reason for being so.

  It was an extraordinary dinner party. The more I looked about me, themore astonishing it seemed. A stranger entering the room would havenoticed nothing unusual; he would have seen a number of apparently quiteordinary men and women dining, and enjoying themselves, people rathermore sociable, perhaps, than the guests at dinner parties often are. Andyet I had reason to believe that among these ostensibly respectablepeople three at least there were whose lives were veiled in a mystery ofsome sort--I hoped it might be nothing worse. The opinion I had formedof our hostess is already known. In addition there was that strangeyoung man, Hugesson Gastrell, who, knowing everyone in London, was, in asense, known by no one. For what did anybody know about him? Questioned,people invariably answered that he came from Australia or Tasmania andhad inherited a large fortune from an uncle. That was all. They knewnaught of his parents or his antecedents; his private life was aclosed book.

  My glance rested on my neighbour's white, well-manicured hands. Severaltimes already, during dinner, I had observed how graceful they were, andhad noticed the long, slender fingers, the well-shaped, polishednails--fingers on which precious stones shone and sparkled as the rayscast down from beneath the shades of the subdued electric lamps touchedthem at frequent intervals. Suddenly a thought flashed in upon me, andinvoluntarily I caught my breath. The voice of a dying man was callingto me, was crying a name in my ears as it had done that day I had satwith Sir Roland Challoner by Harold Logan's bed and watched the fearfuleyes gazing into vacancy.

  "Jasmine ... it is all I ask, all I want, my darling woman ... wouldn'totherwise have killed her ... it was her fault ... oh, no, discovery isimpossible ... black, charred beyond all hope of recognition ... didright to kill her, dear, I ..."

  The sound of the voice--I seemed to hear it distinctly in spite of theconversation and laughter all around--and the picture which rosesimultaneously into the vision of my imagination, made me recoil. Mygaze was set again upon those pale, graceful hands with their blueveins, their scintillating gems. As in a dream I heard Jasmine Gastrellin conversation with Cranmere, seated upon her other side; heard, too,his silly talk, his empty laughter. Her hands seemed now completely tohold my gaze. I could not look away. And, as I watched them, the feelingof revulsion rose.

  Conjectures, suspicions, hideous thoughts filled my brain as my eyesremained riveted. Now the fingers looked like snakes--strange,flesh-tinted reptiles with eyes emerald green and ruby red, cruel,sinuous. Now great knots of muscle stood out upon her bare arms. Herhands were clutching something--what it was I could not see. The fingersgrew twisted and distorted ... they had crimson stains upon them ... thevery nails were shot with blood and I thought I saw--

  My train of thought was cut by my neighbour on my right. What she said Ihardly knew, and did not care. Still, I was glad that she had spoken.The interruption had diverted my attention, and brought my thoughts fromdreamland back into actual life.

  Then the thought came to me, What was the object of this dinner party?Why had Connie Stapleton invited these people down to Newbury? Why, ifshe wished to give a dinner party, had she not given it in town? Fromthe conversation during dinner I had gathered that the guests, one andall, lived in London. It seemed strange therefore to the verge ofeccentricity to ask them to come fifty miles to dine. True, the_cuisine_ at "The Rook" was above reproach, the hotel itself excellentlyappointed, but none the less--

  "Don't you agree, Mr. Berrington?" Mrs. Gastrell exclaimed, laughing asshe turned from Cranmere to me.

  "I didn't catch the question," I said with a start, again broughtsuddenly to earth.

  "Lord Cranmere is of opinion that the man you found in hiding at Holtmust, from the descriptions which have been given of him, at some timeor other have been a gentleman. I say, 'No; that no gentleman could sinkso low as to become a common criminal of that kind.' One can understanda gentleman, by which I mean a man of education and careful upbringing,being driven, through force of circumstances, to rob a bank, or even toforge a signature to a cheque; but for such a man to sink to the levelof a common housebreaker is unthinkable--don't you agree with me?"

  Her eyes shone strangely as they rested upon mine. Not until now had thewonderful intelligence in their purple-green depths struck me soforcibly. From the orange-tinted lamps before her on the table the lightwhich shone up in her face seemed to increase their brilliance,accentuate their expression and their power. It imparted, too, to herextraordinary complexion a peculiar, livid tint, while the masses of herburnished, red-brown hair, coiled about her head in great ropes anddressed low in her neck, was shot with a chestnut shade which greatlyenhanced its beauty.

  I paused before answering. For fully ten minutes she had not addressedme, so deeply engaged had she been in conversation with Lord Cranmere.Why should she all at once interrupt her talk and put this question tome? None but Sir Roland Challoner and I were aware of the dead man'sidentity; even we had no actual proof that he had been Lord Logan's son,though our discovery of the locket, considered in relation to certainfacts known to Sir Roland, left no room for doubt. That locket SirRoland had appropriated in order that the dead man's identity might notbe traced and the family name tarnished. Jasmine Gastrell must of coursebe aware of his identity? Did she suspect that I knew his name, andcould this be an attempt to entrap me into revealing that I knew it?

  "That is a question difficult to answer," I said guardedly. "I believethere are instances on record of men of education, of men even of goodbirth, sinking to the lowest depth of degradation when once they hadbegun to tread the downward path. It would be interesting to know whothat man really was. He wouldn't tell his name, wouldn't even hintat it."

  "So that of course you don't know it."

  "Naturally."

  Again that keen, searching expression in the large, luminous eyes. Theyseemed to look right through me. They seemed to read my thoughts andwrest my secrets from me.

  "And you found nothing upon him that might have given you a clue, Isuppose; nothing in his pockets, no marks upon the body, there wasnothing he was wearing that might have put you on the track?"

  "Absolutely nothing," I answered, thinking of the locket as I lookedstraight into her eyes. Never before had I realized how cleverly Icould lie.

  It was close on midnight when we all assembled in the hall preparatoryto leaving--those of us who were leaving. Hugesson Gastrell had leftlong before, in fact immediately after dinner, as he had, he said, animportant appointment in London. Somebody nudged me lightly as hebrushed past, and glancing round I caught Osborne's eye. He made no signwhatever, yet there was something in his look which made me think hewanted me, and a minute later I sauntered after him into the room wherethe hats and coats had been.

  But for us, the room was now deserted. Glancing quickly to right andleft, Jack walked over to a corner where a tall screen stood. There wasnobody behind it.

  He beckoned to me, and I approached.

  "We are among a set of scoundrels," he said rapidly, under his breath."I am glad to see that you too didn't recognize him."

  "Recognize whom?" I asked in astonishment, also speaking in a whisper.

  "Preston, the ex-detective. I introduced him to you the last time we metin town."

  "I remember the man perfectly, but surely he isn't here."

  Jack's lips stretched into a grin.

  "'Lord Cranmere,'" he said. "That's Preston!"
>
  He chuckled.

  "Cranmere's own brother was actually deceived when we brought the twotogether, as a test," he went on. "Preston is a genius. He doesn'tmerely 'make up' to look like someone else; he doesn't, when he is madeup, just impersonate the character; for the time he _is_ the man, he'feels like him,' he says, he shares his views, he becomes his otherego. He has the advantage in this case of knowing Cranmere well, and hehas, in consequence, excelled himself to-night. The way he has hit offCranmere's lisp is marvellous. Easterton, who meets Cranmere frequently,is at this moment in the hall arguing with Preston about land taxationand small holdings, under the impression that he is talking to Cranmere.It really is rather amusing."

  When I had expressed my astonishment, and we had talked for a minute ortwo, he suddenly grew serious.

  "But remember, Mike," he said, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "nobodyknows this--nobody but you and I. Preston has assured me that thesuccess of our efforts to run the leaders of this gang to ground--hetells me he is sure there is a gang working together and playing intoone another's hands very cleverly--will largely depend upon ourdiscreetness and our secretiveness, also upon our tact and our knowledgeof when to act. So not a word, mind; not a syllable even to DulcieChalloner--have I your promise?"

  Dulcie and I talked but little as we sped homeward through the darkness.She seemed depressed, I thought, though she assured me that she hadthoroughly enjoyed herself and was feeling quite well. I must say thatthe "mental atmosphere" of that party had affected me unpleasantly,though I could not have said precisely why.

  On and on the car travelled, smoothly, almost noiselessly. Snow wasfalling--it had been falling for two hours, the chauffeur had told usbefore we started--though not very heavily. The night was quite still.We had long passed the tiny hamlets a mile or two from Newbury and werenow on the five miles' stretch of winding road between there and HoltStacey. Soon we passed the sign-post close to Holt Stacey railwaystation. As we sped through the village some moments later the housesand cottages all wrapped in darkness seemed to spring forward into thelight one after another as though to peer at us as we shot by.

  Now Holt Stacey lay behind us, and only four miles remained. From thetime we had left Newbury no vehicle of any kind had passed us, nor anyhuman being, nor had we overtaken any. Dulcie, nestling close to me inthe warm, comfortable brougham, was more than half asleep. I too feltdrowsy, and I fear that more than once my chin had dropped forward witha jerk. Suddenly the car swerved abruptly to the right. So tightly werethe brakes applied at the same instant that we were both thrown forwardalmost on to the floor. The car lurched, rose up on one side, then as Iinstinctively threw my arms about Dulcie to protect her if possible fromwhat seemed about to be a very serious accident, the car righted itselfand stopped dead.

  "Good heavens! What has happened?" I exclaimed, as the chauffeur, whohad sprung off his seat, opened the door. Dulcie still lay in my arms,trembling with fear, though from the first she had not uttered a sound,or in the least lost her head.

  "Someone lying in the road, sir," he answered, "drunk, I shouldn'twonder. He was half covered with snow, and I all but ran over him."

  "Lying in the snow! Why, he'll die if he's left there," I exclaimed. "Goand have a look at him, and then come back to me."

  Several minutes passed, and the chauffeur did not return. Becomingimpatient, I opened the door of the brougham, and called out. A momentlater the man appeared. The electric torch he carried--one he used whenoccasion arose to examine the car in the dark--was still switched on.The hand that held it trembled a little, and in the light which shonedown inside the brougham I noticed that the chauffeur lookedsingularly pale.

  "Could you kindly step out for a moment, please, sir?" he said in acurious tone.

  Guessing that something serious must be amiss to prompt him to ask meto step out into the deep snow in my evening shoes, I got out at once,in spite of Dulcie's entreating me not to do so and get my feet soaked.

  When I had shut the car door, and we had walked a few paces, thechauffeur stopped abruptly.

  "Sir," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "Well, what?" I asked, also stopping.

  "Sir--it's Churchill, the gardener. Poor fellow! It's awful! He's dead,sir, quite cold. He--he's been killed--_murdered_!"