The Mayfair Mystery

by Frank Richardson

  When the footman had left the room she continued:

  ‘By the by, George…oh, I beg your pardon, I oughtn’t to call you that.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Pray do.’

  ‘May I?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘Well, George, you have your hand on the pulse of the public, do you think this is a very grave mistake of his?’

  ‘Why do you take an interest?’ he inquired.

  ‘One naturally takes an interest in the mistakes of one’s landlord.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ he answered, seating himself in a chair of gold and satin, ‘I think he has made an almost disastrous mistake. He is, perhaps, the most unpopular man in England today, and mind you, it takes a great deal to cause an Englishman to hate. Hatred is a lost art. We have not practised it in northern climates since the seventeenth century. We know how to praise but we don’t know how to blame. We don’t even know how to punish the guilty—that is the guilty whose offences are not dealt with by the Criminal Law. The morally guilty we can’t condemn, we haven’t the strength to condemn them. A man to whose incompetence is due the slaughter of 10,000 English soldiers secures promotion. Look at the position of Clifford Oakleigh! By going to Badschwerin he could, beyond question, secure the peace of Europe. But he doesn’t go.’

  ‘What do you think he deserves?’ she asked, leaning forward and staring into his eyes. ‘What do you think he deserves?’

  ‘It is not for me to condemn him,’ he answered.

  ‘But you are condemning him.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ she persisted, ‘to what?’

  ‘His case is unusual,’ he replied.

  ‘But can’t you pronounce an unusual sentence? Should he be imprisoned in a fortress for life?’

  ‘Frankly,’ he answered, ‘I think he ought to be tarred and feathered. He’s my greatest friend, but that’s what I say.’

  She leant back on the sofa and watched him. From head to feet it seemed to him that her eyes took an inventory of him.

  When tea was served and the butler and footman had left the room she said:

  ‘I think you are quite right Mr…’

  ‘George.’

  ‘George,’ she smiled, ‘I think you are quite right, George. But of course, it’s quite possible that he can’t go to Badschwerin.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘It may be that he has engagements here. That’s quite possible.’

  Impatiently he rose from his chair.

  ‘Engagements of what sort? I’m not trying to make you jealous because you don’t know him. But what do you suppose are the engagements of a busy man, of a man of high repute, who vanishes for three days in the week and never lets anyone know where?’

  ‘What do I suppose?’ she queried.

  ‘What do you suppose?’ he repeated, ‘a woman!’

  She laughed an almost boisterous laugh.

  ‘Do you know I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Well, it’s a damnable thing,’ he answered.

  She looked at him earnestly.

  ‘George, I’m afraid you are extremely lacking in sentiment. A woman means nothing to you.’

  ‘You forget,’ he answered, ‘that I asked you to be my wife.’

  ‘Oh, I remember that,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a list of all the men who have asked me to be their wives: I have written their names down. And I also remember the names of the men who…didn’t ask me to be their wives. I don’t find it necessary to write their names down. They were most ridiculous people. I think you would laugh if I told you. Someday, perhaps, I will tell you.’

  He flashed indignation.

  ‘If I know them, I hope you won’t tell me their names.’

  She lay back on the sofa. Her hands were behind her head. He could see two dainty white leather shoes with paste buckles and a suggestion of open-work stocking.

  ‘What beautiful feet you have,’ he said. devouring them with his eyes.

  ‘Beautiful shoes,’ she corrected.

  He drew his chair towards her. She made no movement of prohibition.

  Looking deep down into her eyes he asked:

  ‘The more I see of you, the less I understand you. Will you tell me why you have refused to be my wife?’

  A smile played about her lips.

  ‘Do you want to know the truth?’

  ‘You have sentenced me to death,’ he answered.

  ‘I should like to know my offence.’

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going to marry you because.… No, I’m not going to tell you the truth. But I’m going to tell you something, George,’ and a tiny conical hand set with a cabochon emerald stole towards him.

  Instinctively he seized the hand and covered it with kisses. He felt that a tremor ran through her frame. He felt that his presence, his physical contact, filled her with emotion. Her eyes closed. With a spasmodic movement she threw her head back. In a whisper she said, ‘I can’t marry you…I love you.’

  So low were her tones that he could not grasp whether she had said, ‘I can’t marry you because I love you.’ He did not care. She had said ‘I love you.’

  Instantly he threw his arms around her. He smothered her lips with kisses. He caressed her face with his lips. Her breast was heaving. ‘Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!’

  In a paroxysm of passion he gripped her to him and pressed his lips upon her eyes. Then her lips sought his in an ecstasy of delight. Her flesh was the most exquisite he had ever felt, of the texture of satin marvellously perfumed with the scent of health.

  She placed no obstacle against the tide of his passion.

  He stood by the fireplace, his shoulders hunched, staring with burning eyes at her limp figure. She turned languidly towards him and opened her eyes. Around them were deep black rims. A spasm shook her figure.

  ‘My dear George, what are you thinking about?’

  He did not tell her what he was thinking about.

  In his mind had appeared a problem very hard of solution.

  Many of us lead complex lives. We are this today and that tomorrow. But did Nature ever involve a maiden who was also a Phryne?

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she repeated.

  ‘Are you thinking it is strange that you are the only man I have ever loved?’

  ‘Something of that sort,’ he answered.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  ‘UNCLE GUSSIE’ IS NONPLUSSED

  SCARCELY had he left Pembroke Street when the neat, one-horse brougham of Mr Augustus Parker drove up. Very dapper he was and spruce. Having dressed himself with extraordinary care, he fancied that he had taken ten years off his past. In this supposition he erred, but he looked quite five years younger than his actual age.

  In spite of that, he did not give one the idea he intended to convey, namely, that of a possible bridegroom for a young girl.

  He waited a quarter of an hour in Miriam’s boudoir. During this time he walked nervously up and down the room, or rather up and down so much of the room as commanded a view of the mirror over the chimney-piece. Egotist though he was, he could not conceal from himself the fact that of late his influence had waned. There were many people who regarded him as a joke. In various papers he had been twitted for a tuft-hunter. It was obviously necessary that he should do something, what did not much matter, but something of importance if he were to regain his glorious position.

  Miriam entered. The usual sparkle was absent from her eyes, there was a tired, bored expression on her face as she held out her hand to welcome him. She gave him one of those welcomes which are scarcely distinguishable from good-byes. He held her hand in his a little longer than was necessary. She took it away with almost a jerk and dropped down upon the sofa.

  ‘Tea…uncle?’

  ‘No, thank you very much. I have come here,’ he answered, ‘for something more important than tea.’ Then reflectively he added, ‘Our
little arrangement has worked very well.’

  ‘Admirably.’

  ‘No one has suspected that we are not actually uncle and niece. You have been, my dear Miriam, a very great Society success.’

  ‘Thanks to your tact,’ she replied. ‘But what is the business? Our financial arrangements are settled.’

  ‘I have come to speak to you, Miriam, about something more important than finance.’

  ‘Is there anything in the world more important than finance?’

  From a gold cigarette case she took a cigarette and lighted it.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he answered. ‘There is, at any rate, one thing more important.’

  ‘Religion?’ she inquired.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, religion, but I was thinking of love.’

  She was tired of the old man. She wanted him to go. There was a note of rudeness in her voice as well as more than a touch of rudeness in her words.

  ‘You are always unselfish. For whom are you thinking about love now?’

  ‘For you,’ he replied.

  ‘For me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’

  In a voice that he intended to be impressive he stated, ‘I am thinking about love, also, for myself.’

  She opened eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘You know I have never married, Miriam.’

  ‘And,’ she said, ‘I have always understood the reason. That Dowager Duchesses were too old for you, and that other Duchesses were, of course, married. Princesses of the Royal blood never marry commoners, even such eminent commoners as you, dear uncle.’

  On the defensive, he urged, ‘You have omitted to mention the fact that I have never been in love.’ She laughed. ‘I thought that I hinted at something of the sort when I called on you for the first time. You remember we had a little chat about a girl…and a brougham.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he protested, ‘was nothing.’

  ‘The girl took a different view.’

  ‘That was a mere affaire. I am talking of a great passion.’

  ‘Whose?’ she queried with uplifted eyebrows.

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘For whom?’

  He took three steps towards her. ‘You.’

  She sat up suddenly on the sofa, her hands fell on her knees. With something of a masculine attitude she threw back her head and roared with laughter.

  He flushed an unbecoming purple.

  When she had sufficiently recovered herself, she inquired:

  ‘Since when has it been the fashion for Society leaders to marry their nieces?’

  ‘My dear Miriam,’ he said, a little flustered,

  ‘I’ve thought out the whole matter, and it’s possible. Will you listen to me?’

  She accorded him a bored permission.

  ‘I can explain the whole thing as a whim. I can tell people, of course, in a very tactful way, that we have been engaged for a long time, and that I introduced you into Society as my niece simply to save you from the jealousy which you would have aroused had it been known that you were actually my fiancée. I don’t understand what you are laughing at,’ he added testily.

  ‘I am laughing,’ she explained, so soon as she could explain anything, ‘at the infernal fool that you would make of yourself.’

  Indignantly he cried:

  ‘Have I ever made a fool of myself? I am Augustus Parker. You don’t seem to realise that I am Augustus Parker.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I realise it fully, but I think you overestimate the credulity of Society. They have believed that I was your niece, because we both said that I was your niece. But I don’t think that you will be able to persuade them that I am your fiancée if I deny it, and persist in stating that I am your niece.’

  He rose from the chair, tottered for a second, and then gasped.

  ‘Do I understand that you refuse…me?’

  She nodded an affirmative.

  He seemed bewildered.

  ‘Am I to understand that I, Augustus Parker, have been refused by a girl from nowhere?’

  Again came the nod. The world was tottering. This way and that his brain turned in search of an argument that would bring her to reason. With his hands outstretched, he stared blankly at her.

  ‘My dear girl, you don’t seem to understand what an advertisement it would be for you to be married to me.’

  Her patience was at an end.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going to marry as an advertisement. I’m not going to marry at all. So let us leave it at that.’

  Her determined attitude towards her celibacy softened the blow, but hardly to an appreciable degree.

  ‘After all, lots of girls have said that, Miriam.’

  ‘But they have not meant it. I mean it.’

  ‘I trust to your honour not to tell anybody that I have offered my hand to you and been refused.’

  She was anxious for him to go.

  ‘Is it likely that I should state that my uncle had gone mad and proposed marriage?’

  ‘I quite see that,’ he answered, somewhat reassured. But he was bitterly disappointed at the failure of the first of his two schemes for the booming of Mr Augustus Parker.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  AT THE SAVOY

  A LIMP and dejected man, he got into his brougham, having told the coachman to drive to Clifford Oakleigh’s house in Harley Street. On the way, he concentrated his mind on his second scheme. If he could use his influence with this erratic physician to go to Badschwerin, he would become little short of a popular hero. Being a popular hero he had always regarded as somewhat vulgar, but in his present precarious position he felt that the affection, the esteem and the regard of the masses, and the delightful personal articles in praise of him which would appear in the papers, could not fail perhaps even to gain him an admission to Court circles, which he had always coveted, and which he had, at length, been compelled to regard as out of the question.

  His name would be advertised all over Europe. Mr Augustus Parker would be the man who had established an Entente Cordiale between a British Monarch and the Emperor. Mr!—no, surely not. Sir Augustus Parker. How could a man who had done such things be refused a baronetcy, which he had so richly earned already by introducing dancing men into the homes of Duchesses?

  He was roused from his reflections by the sudden stoppage of the carriage. It was not opposite Clifford Oakleigh’s house. In surprise, he put out his head. The coachman turned to him, saying:

  ‘I beg pardon, sir, but I can’t drive any further. There’s a regular mob outside the house.’

  And the coachman spoke true words.

  A seething crowd had surrounded Clifford Oakleigh’s consulting-rooms. Stones were being thrown; windows were being broken. Cautiously Augustus Parker alighted. He addressed a man of the costermonger type in mufti, with that offensive courtesy of a superior to an inferior.

  ‘What’s all this about, my good man?’

  ‘Not so much of your my good man,’ replied the other in a surly voice. ‘Oo are yer talking to, yer bloomin’ white walrus?’ Mr Parker’s face expressed surprise at the appellation.

  The man explained for the benefit of another loiterer in the same walk of life.

  ‘This ’ere bloke don’t know as ’ow ’e’s a bloomin’ white walrus. ’Ere, Bill, the old geyser grows ’is moustache to imitate the tusks of a walrus. Blime! ’E’s a rum ’un, ’e is.’ Then he added in a gruff tone, ‘And ’e don’t ’esitate to call me, me ’oo ’e don’t know, Bill, “my good man”.’

  His friend took a different line. He was ingratiating to Mr Parker.

  ‘Don’t you listen to none o’ Jim’s lip. What can I do for you, guv’nor? I got one or two stones, if yer want to ’ave a chuck. A bob a time, mister. Goin’, goin’, gone! The perlice will be ’ere d’rec’ly.’

  Mr Parker declined to do a deal in missiles.

  Suddenly someone in the crowd shouted out,

  ‘Three groans for Clifford Oakleigh,’ a suggest
ion that was received with enthusiasm. Then the crowd swayed, as though impelled from the opposite direction, and Augustus Parker was almost carried off his feet. Jim and Bill, however, protected him.

  ‘It’s all right, guv’nor,’ said one of them. ‘We’ll look after yer. This ain’t no place for an elderly walrus. Besides, there won’t be no more fun. ’Ere’s the perlice, and the bloomin’ doctor isn’t in the ’ouse, anyway.’

  Mr Parker shook himself free of his protectors and darted into his carriage.

  Bill put his head through the window.

  ‘Give us a tanner, guv’nor, and I’ll tell the coachman where to go.’

  Repelled by the man’s huge grimy face, Mr Parker thrust his head out of the other window and commanded ‘Home.’

  ‘That’s all right, coachman,’ shouted Bill. ‘Take ’im to the Zoo—walrus department.’ Then he grinned into the carriage through the window again. ‘Give us a tanner, guv’nor, I ain’t got nothink o’ yours. It’s Jim as got your gent’s gold watch and chain.’

  With that he was gone.

  ‘Confound it,’ said Mr Parker, fingering an empty pocket. ‘I’m not in luck today.’

  And on subsequent days more evil fortune befell him. For instance, it was a great blow to his self-respect that the messages he sent to Clifford Oakleigh, requesting an interview, were unanswered. In addition, a Duke whom he knew but slightly, and to whom, immediately upon the announcement of his engagement, he had sent round a wedding present, had not invited him to the ceremony. For three days in succession important newspapers appeared without containing any mention of his name. But the worst blow of all was the behaviour of Miriam.

  One night he was dining at the Savoy with the Duchess of Quinton, one of the leading Duchesses of our day…and Mr William Gillett.

  Suddenly Lashbridge reduced the table to silence by exclaiming:

  ‘Isn’t that your niece dining over there with George Harding, the K.C.?’

  All eyes were turned in the direction of the table, at which the two were sitting alone. They were making no concealment of the fact that they were in love with each other, they were gazing les yeux dans les yeux, each, apparently, enjoying to the utmost the other’s conversation. His eyes glittered with admiration, and hers with amusement. Then the women began to operate. Within five minutes her character was gone.