The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  Mr. Drinkwater’s rooms had the advantage of a situation from which one looked into the windows, a few yards away, of the chambers of the great Buss, K.C. The two sets of rooms, in fact, adjoined at the back of next-door houses set at an angle, so that Reginald Drinkwater, were it not for the general decorum of his behavior and his particular reverence for his distinguished neighbor, might have peashot Buss, K.C., at short range, when the windows were a little open. Also, if Buss, K.C., had not been a very fat, stumpy little man, with very short arms, and if he and Reginald Drinkwater had been acquainted, they might have shaken hands across the sills of the two windows closest to the angle over the little yard below. This, indeed, was a neighborly courtesy of which Reginald had dreamed as a possibility in his future times of eminence. Meanwhile, what with the proximity of Buss, K.C., and the literary associations of his own rooms, he felt himself rather eminent than otherwise, already.

  “Ah, yes,” he would say on the infrequent occasion of a friend’s visit; “they are old Buss’s rooms. Fine collection of old silver he’s got there, too.” Which looked almost as though Reginald were a familiar visitor of Buss, K.C.; though, in fact, he only knew of the fine old silver, as others did, by report, and from the newspaper accounts of auction sales at which the great Buss was a buyer.

  When Mr. Reginald Drinkwater’s inactivity had so endured for a good while he conceived a grievance against his very comfortable circumstances, in that his life had been wholly empty of adventure. This, he told himself, was the reason that he had not as yet launched on a brilliant literary career; for he had heard on high authority that one could only write in the light of one’s own actual experience. So he took to seeking adventure in the streets of London, where, he believed, from the teaching of many magazine stories, it was very readily encountered. But his luck was out, for after many attempts he was rewarded with nothing better than the purchase of a dummy pawn-ticket from a plausible young man in fetter Lane. It is possible that a naturally retiring disposition hindered Reginald’s ambitions, since, after all, London is a strange and adventurous place enough, as he was at length convinced. For indeed his romance came at last.

  He had left his rooms one february afternoon, with the simple design of buying tobacco at a shop in fleet Street; and because it was to be so short an expedition he had merely locked his inner door and left his “oak” swung open. The “oak” and the inner door, it may be explained parenthetically, stood, as is usual, scarce two feet apart, and the former, a ponderous iron-strapped fabric, was only locked when the inmate was away from home, or, being in, desired no visitors.

  Reginald Drinkwater bought the tobacco he required, and strolled easily back up fleet Street with his purchase in his pocket and his ignoble condition in his mind. Here he walked, in the midst of six million romances—for he had read, and therefore believed, that every life held its own—and not only had he found no romance himself, but he could guess at none of those about him. So Reginald walked, puzzled and ill-content, unaware that his romance waited for him a hundred strides away, and was nearer with every step.

  He turned in at the Temple Gate and twisted left and right through the passages leading to his quarters, musing gloomily; and so he ascended the stairs, and reached his landing to perceive that his “oak” was standing much closer than he had left it. He swung it back, and stood amazed. For here was his romance.

  Crouching between the “oak” and the inner door, shrinking into the angle farthest from him, her lips parted and her eyes full of fear, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen or ever wished to see.

  Her heavy veil was flung back from her now pale face, her eyes were black and large and appealing, and her skin, brilliantly clear, had the tone of ivory.

  “You will not hurt me?” she pleaded. “You are not an enemy?”

  Reginald, confounded by the vision before him, and too anxious to remove such an impression to be wholly coherent, stammered fervent denials. Except for the lady’s own obvious terror he would have been a little frightened himself, for he was young and susceptible, and prone to nervousness in female society.

  “I am much afraid,” she said. “I am pursued. You are not angry that I should hide in your doorway?”

  He protested, still with some confusion, that nothing was so far from his thoughts; and was adding that, on the contrary, he was ready and anxious to do anything on earth to save her, when she checked him with raised forefinger, and a head turned to listen.

  “Was not that a step?” she said. “Is there nobody else on the stairs?”

  They listened together, but there was no sound.

  “They are waiting, then,” she said, “and watching to me—watching for me at the outside. Can I not go by another door?”

  There was no other door, he explained, and indeed there was no need for such an exit. If she would place herself under his protection he would be happy to see her safely—

  “No, no!” she interrupted; “you do not understand how bad it is. I should be followed—they would kill me somewhere else—and my brother, my dear brother! I must wait a little while. I think they do not know it is in this house I have come. You will be kind, sir, will you not? I have not one friend; and if you will let me stay in your room a little while, till it comes dark, I can escape, I think. You are very kind—will you let me stay a little while?”

  It might seem an odd request in ordinary; but the circumstances were far from ordinary now. To Reginald, who had met his adventure at last, they were stunning, bewildering. Could he possibly drive away a friendless girl—to meet the strange perils she feared, alone? Was he not rather conscious of a secret joy that the danger, whatever it was had driven her to his protecting arm? He turned the key in the inner door, and thrust it open.

  “Oh, you are very kind, sir—so very kind,” the stranger repeated as she entered; and it was only now that Reginald noticed that she said “vehry” and that her whole accent and manner were a little foreign. “You have saved me,” she continued, still much agitated; “and my brother—especially you have saved my dear brother!”

  “Your brother?” repeated Reginald, with a doubtful look about the staircase as he closed the door. “Your brother?”

  “Yes—my dear brother. He is not here—he is hiding. That is why I am so afraid to be followed, for then they will find him. Oh, the wicked men! They are so very cruel!”

  The beautiful girl sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Reginald, his whole soul filled with indignation that the world could hold creatures so base as to put her to such distress, was tortured with helplessness. If only he could do something—if only the unknown enemy stood tangibly before him.

  Presently she looked up and spoke again. “Pardon me,” she said; “I am very weak when I should be very strong. You are a kind friend, but I should not trouble you with these things. Perhaps I can go away. Can they see these windows from the street?”

  Reginald hastened to reassure her. The windows overlooked nothing but a private yard, to which there was no access from any public place.

  “You are really quite safe,” he protested. “And if there is anything I can do—anything in the world—if I am not intruding on private affairs, and you will tell me—”

  But her attention was fixed on the windows. “Perhaps,” she said, “I could go that way, if the other houses have doors in other streets. There is no other door here, you say, but the windows would not be so difficult—to go out by that house.”

  She nodded toward Mr. Buss’s rooms. But, as Reginald explained, Mr. Buss was away, taking a fortnight on the Riviera, and the door of his chambers would be locked. At the same time it gave him a further sense of the desperate situation of this delicate girl, that she should for a moment contemplate an escape by the expedient of scrambling from one window to another across an angle of wall thirty feet above the yard. He strove again to reassure her.

  “That way is
not possible,” he said; “but you are really quite safe. Perhaps you have come from a country where the police are not—” She looked up quickly.

  “From another country?” she said. “You know I am not English? And they say my English is so good! How quick and clever you are!”

  Never had flattery sounded so sweet in Reginald’s ears. Indeed flattery was a thing to them singularly unfamiliar, so small was his acquaintance with the world.

  “Your English,” he replied, “is splendid—beautiful! But I thought—I supposed—something suggested that you were a foreigner, and I wish to tell you that our London police—”

  “Yes, I know—they are excellent,” she interrupted. “Better, I hope, at least than those of my poor country, where they have allowed a terrible crime—a horrible crime—that has made the whole world shudder!”

  Reginald thought instantly of Portugal and the murder of the king and his son; for the newspapers had been clamorous with the crime for a week past. “Do you speak Portugal?” he asked tentatively.

  “Ah, indeed!” she replied with a melancholy smile. “My poor country! It is wonderful that you should judge so well; it is good for me that you are my friend, and not my enemy! Do you guess also what is my trouble? Shall I tell you?”

  There was nothing in the world that could interest Reginald Drinkwater half so much, and he said so, in something very near those terms. “Unless,” he added, “you would rather—rather not tell me.”

  “If it does not trouble you—‘bore’ you, is it not?—I would much like to tell you,” she said. “It is so good to trust to a good friend; and when you have been so kind to shelter me from my enemies it is only right that I should tell you why I have asked your help. There has been great trouble in my country, and my dear brother Luiz and I have escaped to England. You have heard of the trouble?”

  “Oh, yes—of course. The late dictator also has left Portugal, I believe. You are not related to him?”

  “To him? To the oppressor? To the man who has caused everything? Never—that is not one of our misfortunes, I thank heaven. My dear brother was of the opposite party—the republicans.”

  “I see; and was implicated, I suppose, in the—the—”

  “Do you mean in the horrible crime—the assassination of the poor king and the prince? Ah, never! You could never suppose it if you knew my brother Luiz—never! We are of good family, and my brother could have no part in such doings. That is why we are here, and in such trouble. There were bad men in the republican party as well as good; indeed the bad men gained a great ascendency, and it is by them that the king was assassinated. My brother opposed them in the party and they became his enemies. Because of that they nominated him to join with the others in the crime; he was to prove his constancy, they said. But instead he gave a warning, so that the assassins were obliged to change their plans. Have you read of it in the journals? You will see that they killed the poor king and the prince in the street, near the public offices. At first it was to be on the quay, when they landed; but of that my brother gave secret warning, and on the quay they were very carefully guarded. Why did they not guard them as carefully for the rest of the journey? I cannot say; but the thing happened, as now you know, and my brother and I fled to England to escape the vengeance of the republican committee, who knew of the warning he had sent, and who were angry that the queen and the other prince had not been killed too. You may read the journals, but you do not know what terrible things are going on in Lisbon, even now!”

  “But surely you are safe here!”

  “On the contrary, our enemies followed us by a ship that left the day after our own. We have changed our lodgings twice, but today I have been followed by two men—men that I have seen in Lisbon. I was terrified, and could not guess what to do. I came into the gardens here from the street, and walked about in the narrow courtyards, but they still followed. I think I must have escaped them for a moment when I turned into this court; but I found that there was no way out, so I ran up these stairs; and when I heard you coming, I feared they must have seen me enter and were still pursuing me. I did not suppose it would be a friend—such a kind friend; if you will not be angry that I call you my friend?”

  To this, Reginald Drinkwater, flushing with delight and stammering with confusion, made a wild and random answer. “It is delightful to hear you say it,” he said, continuing, “and I wish I could do more—much more—anything—to make you say it again. Surely I can help you in some other way—some more important way?”

  She smiled sadly and shook her head.

  “That is very noble of you,” she said; “but I think there is nothing—nothing at least that might not be dangerous, which I should have no right to ask of you.”

  “But tell me what it is,” protested Reginald vehemently, “and I will do it. Surely my knowledge of this country may be of use to strangers like you and your brother?”

  “I have been in England before,” she said; “though, of course, you must understand your own country better than I. And perhaps—when I have told my brother of your kindness—perhaps he may know of some way in which you might help us, if you will let me remind you of your offer.”

  “If you will only promise that, whatever it is you ask me, you will make me happy,” declaimed Reginald, with enthusiasm. “Will you promise it?”

  “Señor,” she began, looking up at his face—“but you have not yet told me your name.”

  Reginald repeated it, with an odd feeling that it had become a duller and less imposing name since he had last seen it, painted on his oak, only a few minutes ago.

  “Mr. Reginald Drinkwater,” she said—and at once the name became beautiful on her lips—“I will promise.” She extended her hand. “I am Lucia da Silva.”

  The light in the courtyard was grown dull and dusk in the short february afternoon. “Perhaps it will be safe to go now,” she said, rising and bending to peer once more from the window. “If,” she added, “if you will do one little thing for me. Will you go first and see if they are watching? There are two men, one rather tall, though not very, and one small and short; both dark men. They must not see me go.”

  Reginald repeated that he was ready to do anything, but suggested, in the meantime, tea from his gas-stove. His visitor, however, begged, with a very pretty anxiety, to be excused. She must lose no more time, she said, for already her brother would be alarmed at her long absence. And so Reginald left her and descended the staircase to scout from the front door.

  As he went he was aware of somebody hurrying down before him on the lower flights; and when he emerged from the door he saw a man walking sharply away near the corner of the court. The man was alone, however, and though certainly not short, nor small, but stoutly built, was scarcely of a stature that anybody would call tall, being of about middle height. Reginald followed to the corner, and there watched while the stranger disappeared round the next, and his footsteps died away toward Middle Temple Lane. This would seem to have been merely a visitor leaving some of the lower rooms, and whoever he was, he was gone; so Reginald returned, looking out sharply as he walked. Nowhere was there a pair of lurking men—nowhere, indeed, a pair of men at all. A clerk or two hurrying home early, a tradesman’s boy with a basket and a tuneless whistle, an old messenger with his badge, and nobody else; nobody hiding in doorways, nobody lounging. Clearly the chase must have been abandoned.

  So he returned with his report, and found the beautiful fugitive awaiting him in the doorway. Could she go? Was the way quite clear?

  Reginald Drinkwater took coat, gloves and stick, and the two went out together. From her description it seemed clear that she had entered the Temple by the Middle Temple Lane gate; so now Reginald made it a point of strategy to leave by way of Whitefriars, where he knew a cab could be found in a quiet street.

  The cab was found, and then Reginald met a certain disappointment. For Lucia would not permit him to ac
company her for even part of the way.

  “You are most kind, but it is better—much better—that I go alone,” was all she would say; but there was that in her manner which made it final.

  Reginald accepted his defeat. “Where shall I tell the man to drive?” he asked.

  For a moment she hesitated, with an odd look of doubt, which Reginald found himself resenting. Then she said: “Perhaps I shall not drive all the way; it may be better not. Tell him to go first to farringdon Road.”

  “And you will not forget your promise?”

  “To ask you for help? No—I shall not forget it. Perhaps I shall come quite soon—when I have talked with my brother.”

  With that the cab was gone, and Reginald Drinkwater tried hard to realize, as he went home across King’s Bench Walk in the dark, the visible fact that here indeed was romance and adventure after all, in workaday London, and himself in the midst of it.

  II

  ON the next morning after the visit of the wonderful Portuguese, Reginald, his breakfast finished, took his daily morning stroll in fleet Street. He did this partly out of respect for fleet Street, and a feeling that he was in some vague way growing literary in its precincts, but chiefly because for an hour after breakfast Mrs. Churcher, the laundress, made his rooms unendurable with pails and brooms, and a constant perambulation of her unclean self, which was in theory presumed to result in an accession of cleanliness to the premises. He returned perhaps a trifle later than usual, but found Mrs. Churcher still in possession—waiting for him, in fact, at the door.

  “There’s bin a young lady ’ere for to see you, sir,” she announced, in that voice of greasy huskiness by which the Temple laundress is distinguished from the rest of her sex. “A foring young lady as give the name of Silver, or de Silver. She wouldn’t wait, but she said p’r’aps she’d call agin, sir.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “No, sir; she didn’t leave no other message.”