by Mark Hansom
But he could not for long resist the temptation to show the contempt in which he held me.
“You like the place?” he asked as he was bidding me good-bye.
I said I did — immensely. And he went on:
“Fit for a princess, don’t you think? Fit, even, for Miss Vernon, eh? It was a toss-up between this one and a poky little place in the Brompton Road. I hadn’t then made up my mind whether I wanted merely a place to sleep in or whether I wanted a real home. I chose this. I’m glad now that I did. Miss Vernon will like it. I’m sure she’ll like it. I must try to induce her and Lady Somerton to pay me a visit. It could be done, I think. The novelty of the place will be a sufficient excuse . . . By the way, did I tell you that Lady Somerton asked me whether I would have a chair in her box at the theatre to-morrow night?”
“No,” I said, turning towards him as the elevator began to move up from far down in the well that yawned beside us. “Did she ask you?”
“Yes. At lunch time. And Miss Vernon will be there, of course. I understood that you were going too.”
“I am.”
“That’s good!” he exclaimed, as the elevator cage stopped in front of us and I slipped the trellised gate aside. “You will be able to amuse Lady Somerton during the intervals.”
I was lost for a response. I have already said that I was no match for Mick when it came to the handling of words — nor in any other way, I’m afraid. I did not reply, but let myself down in the elevator and strode out into the street.
And, walking towards the West End, I was conscious of my pitiable insignificance when I compared myself with my cousin. I knew that his intention was to humble me, and I knew that he could succeed. I hated him for his never-dying animosity towards me. Surely I had suffered enough from him in the past! But apparently not. His pleasure in defeating me at every turn was almost diabolical. And, not content with all the harm he had already done, he must try to rob me of Sylvia.
And he would likely succeed. I had held Sylvia’s interest — affection, I hoped — through all these months, it is true. But I had had no real opponent. There had been only young Sydney Wetherhouse who could be said to be on intimate terms with Sylvia, and young Wetherhouse was too backward and shy to be regarded seriously.
But Mick had insinuated himself right into the heart of the family within the first half-hour. That was characteristic of him. And he would send my dreams sky-high and take pleasure in doing it — just as he had destroyed my toys in the old days.
But he should not, I asserted to myself. I could bear the loss of anything else, but I could not bear the loss of Sylvia. A kind of instinctive savageness took hold of me, and I swore that nobody should ever rob me of that divine creature.
With the thought of her loveliness I seemed to be filled with superhuman strength and purpose.
I was filled, too, with a supreme confidence that quickened my step and brought a grim smile to my lips. Something seemed to tell me that I had nothing to fear from my cousin, and I laughed condescendingly as I thought of the way in which he had taken me to his magnificent flat with the idea of taunting me with my comparative poverty.
CHAPTER VI
At the Theatre
S
ylvia,” I said, nervous now that the supreme moment had arrived, “I want to ask you something.”
I don’t know why I should have introduced the supreme moment with a speech so unutterably commonplace, but I did.
It was the afternoon of the day following my visit to my cousin’s gorgeous flat — the afternoon of the day on which we were all to go to the theatre when I was to amuse Lady Somerton during the intervals.
I had made up my mind that Mick should amuse Lady Somerton during the intervals.
But, despite my self-assurance, I was nervous.
Sylvia and I were alone in a little study kind of a place to the rear of the dining-room. I was conscious of the correctness of my dress, and that helped me a little. I knew, too, that my manner was in keeping with the dignity that surrounded us, and that gave me confidence. But I was conscious most of all of Sylvia’s surpassing beauty, and my nervousness sprang from the thought that it could surely be no man’s good fortune to have all that loveliness to himself.
She was standing by the fireplace, in which a newly lighted fire flickered brightly and was reflected in the rich and sombre panelling of the room. Though I had known her for six months I had never been able to rise above the feeling that when I was with her I was in the presence of a divine mystery. She was the embodiment of supreme femininity. There was a delicacy and a charm about her that was beyond analysis. Mick had said that royalty was interested in her. He had said that that was probably a rumour, but I could quite believe that it might be true. She had a natural queenliness that made men her slaves whether they would or no.
And this was the girl whom I was about to ask to share my paltry thousand a year.
“What do you want to ask me?” she said, turning her head and looking down into the fire.
My self-assurance vanished then.
I took a step towards her, because now I had to go through with the proposal; but even the correctness of my dress failed to bolster up my courage.
“Sylvia!” I exclaimed, a sudden wave of bravado coming to my aid, “I want you to be my wife. I know I’m not worthy of you,” I heard myself adding; “but no man is, and no man could love you more than I do.”
Here I took the liberty of putting my hand on her shoulder and turning her half towards me; and I remembered the days — six months ago — when she had been in the habit of linking her arm in mine for spiritual as well as for physical support.
And, remembering that time, I put my other hand under her chin (she was still gazing down into the fire) and tried to raise her face towards mine.
But she slipped from my offered embrace and took a step backwards. And instead of there being on her face an expression of shyness, or confusion, or gladness, there was an undoubted expression of pain.
“Why!” I exclaimed. “I thought — ”
“Oh, Martin, I know!” she said. “But I can’t answer just now. If only you had asked me a week ago! Or two days ago! . . . Don’t make me answer now. Give me some time. Give me until to-night — after the theatre.”
I was utterly confounded. For a moment I was speechless. I now realized that I had been certain that her answer would be yes; and my disappointment stunned me.
“But why to-night?” I asked at last. “Or why last week? What has happened in the meantime?”
And before she could answer I realized what had happened.
“No, no!” I went on. “It’s wrong of me to ask that. Shall I take you through to Lady Somerton?”
She did not say yes or no; but she turned towards the door, and I fell in beside her.
I knew that, like many another girl, she had caught the charm of my fascinating cousin.
At the door she turned and impulsively clasped my face between her hands and kissed me.
“Oh, Martin!” she sobbed. “You’ve been so good to me — so good and so patient! If only I knew my own mind!”
With that she was gone, leaving me in the room by myself.
And I was strangely glad.
Knowing that it was only my cousin who stood between me and my complete happiness I felt that I need not worry. I could not for the life of me account for my sudden confidence and elation. But they were there, in the fullest measure.
I left the house without disturbing any of the inmates, and went home to dress for the theatre.
The rendezvous was at the theatre itself. I arrived early, but I took the precaution of asking at the box-office whether Lady Somerton had yet arrived. I gave the number of her box, and the girl who was attending to me — and who proved at close quarters to be less of a girl than she seemed when viewed from the other side of the foyer — rang through on the telephone and ascertained that her ladyship had not arrived.
I thanked her and turned away, and
for five minutes or so I paced the parquet floor.
My mind was busy with my cousin. I had not yet hit upon any plan for defeating him in the fight for Sylvia’s hand; but I was thinking round the subject and I was confident that I could indeed defeat him.
I had never asserted myself in any of my battles with Mick. It had never been worth it. But with Sylvia Vernon as the stake I knew that I should fight to the last ditch and that I would show a spirit that my self-confident cousin would be amazed to see.
I was hoping that he would arrive before the ladies. A few minutes of private conversation with him might have a wonderful effect.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps he was already here and had gone straight to the box. I did not know what the exact arrangements had been.
For the second time I claimed the attention of the woman whom I had mistaken for a girl, and for the second time she performed strange feats with the telephone on my behalf, and eventually informed me that none of Lady Somerton’s party was yet present.
So I strolled about for a further minute or two upon the parquetry, thinking that, after all, it might be as well not to see Mick alone. Family feuds are apt to flare up suddenly into pitched battles.
The interior decorations soon palled on my impatient senses, and I strolled out on to the steps and surveyed Shaftesbury Avenue. Shaftesbury Avenue was lively at that time of the evening.
It would be better, I was thinking, to leave the matter of Mick in the lap of the gods. I had no doubt that there would soon occur an opportunity for my asserting myself, and I should show my cousin how greatly he had under-estimated me all these years.
I kept my eye on the cars and taxis that were drawing up at short intervals at the edge of the kerb, putting down their loads, and sliding off into the traffic stream. And I read all the names over the lighted shops at the opposite side of the street. And I read the row of newspaper placards leaning against a blank wall, and learned that the Budget Surplus was causing the Chancellor of the Exchequer a vast amount of worry, that there had been a West End Tragedy, that there had been an Uproar in the House of Commons, and that Our New Serial was beginning To-day.
Then someone touched my arm, and I found myself looking down into the wistful face of Sylvia.
“Oh, pardon me!” I said. “I was keeping abreast with the news of the day and I didn’t see you arrive.”
“But where is your cousin?” asked Lady Somerton, putting her head a little on one side and raising her eyebrows in the manner that gave her such an appearance of vivacity. “Are we early?”
“Not too early,” I replied. “But he hasn’t turned up yet.”
I escorted them up the heavily carpeted stairs and along some heavily carpeted corridors.
“He’ll know to ask for your box,” I remarked, as an attendant opened a door and we found ourselves looking over into a well of humming humanity. “They know you are here. I have already asked for you down in the office.”
Sylvia had said nothing except a bare greeting when we met.
The orchestra came to the end of the piece they had been playing when we entered. The conductor fidgeted for a moment with his music and glanced at his watch, apparently uncertain whether to start another piece or not. He did start another piece, but he had not got through many bars when a bell rang, causing him to bring the piece to an early but graceful conclusion.
And still there was no Mick.
“It’s very unlike him,” I said, mainly to Sylvia; “unless he has altered a lot. He was always on time where a pretty girl was concerned.”
I ought not to have said that. It was an unkind thing to say in any case, but it was doubly unkind when he was absent.
But I could not tell what the ladies thought, for the curtain went up then and drew our interest to the stage.
I followed the first few passes of the opening scene, but my mind would wander to the door at our back, and later my eyes followed my mind, and I kept glancing round every now and again, expecting the door to open and Mick to appear in the aperture. Whatever had detained him he would have a story ready, and a few well-chosen words would reinstate him in favour even though it should turn out that he had forgotten all about the appointment.
And from time to time Sylvia also glanced round towards the door.
The first act came to an end, and Lady Somerton turned to me and immediately began to chatter. And she and I chattered throughout the entr’acte, while Sylvia, gloomily, I thought, surveyed the auditorium.
The lights went down, and the curtain rose for the second act. But before we could gather what was afoot on the stage, that fascinating door at the back of the box opened and a man — a man who wore dress clothes for the same reason as a commissionaire wears uniform — looked in somewhat furtively.
He beckoned to me noiselessly. I slipped from my chair and joined him at the door. I was not used to being beckoned to by strangers in official dress suits, but there was something about this man’s furtive air that aroused immediate curiosity within me.
“You Mr. Martin Strange, sir?” he whispered. I told him that I was.
“There’s been a telephone call for you, sir. About your cousin, they said. A Mr. Michael Strange, I think the name was.”
“That’s right,” I said. “We’re expecting him here.”
“I’m sorry to say that he’s dead, sir,” said the man, still whispering.
“Dead?”
I stepped out into the dimly lit corridor and pulled the door softly behind me. But it was immediately opened again from the inside, and Sylvia noiselessly joined us.
By the startled expression in her eyes I guessed that she had heard all that had passed. “They’ve rung off now, sir,” went on the man. “They said would you care to go to Green Bay Mansions, Marylebone. I understand that the circumstances are rather — rather tragic.”
“What has happened?” asked Sylvia, looking up into my face.
“What exactly did they say?” I asked the man.
At that moment a programme-seller came hurrying along the corridor. She had no programmes, but she had in her hand a hurriedly folded newspaper.
“The manager’s compliments,” she said to the man, “and perhaps the gentleman would like to read the account in the paper.”
She handed me the newspaper as she spoke, pointing with one scarlet-nailed finger to a column headed, “West End Tragedy.”
I read through the report, with Sylvia looking over my arm.
“Early this morning,” the report ran, “the body of a man, later identified as Michael Strange, a gentleman of independent means who has only recently taken up residence in London, was found lying in the courtyard at the back of Green Bay Mansions, a block of flats in which Mr. Strange lived.
“Mr. Strange had been dead for some hours when the discovery was made.
“Mr. Albert Jones, a milk-roundsman who serves some of the flats, told our representative that he was in the habit of giving Mr. Strange, a young man of about thirty, a call on his first round. Mr. Jones explained that the dead man, who lived on the ninth floor of the building, had had the flat altered so that he might sleep out on the balcony.
“This morning the camp-bed was empty, and had been turned over on its side. Mr. Jones thought this unusual, and happened to look over the rail of the balcony, from which there is a sheer drop of over a hundred feet, and was horrified to see the body of Mr. Strange, clad in pyjamas, lying in the concrete courtyard.
“Mr. Strange has lived almost wholly abroad for the past two years. Three years ago he inherited the fortune of the well-known collector, Abraham Strange, of whom he was a grandson.”
I stared at the paper for a long time after I had finished reading the account. Then I saw that Sylvia was looking up at me and that her face had gone a dead white.
We exchanged glances. Rather, we exchanged a long stare.
But I could not guess from her expression whether she were following the same train of thought as I was following.
I was trembling — trembling because I stood on the brink of the unknown; and I was praying that she might not suspect the awful power that I now was certain I possessed. If she knew that, she would flee from me in terror.
It was possible that she was thinking of the coincidence of the tragedy that overtook Christopher Knight and of the tragedy that had now overtaken my cousin — the one a man who had stood between her and me, and the other a man who had threatened to stand between her and me. Long might she continue to think of it only as coincidence!
I leaned heavily against the panelled partition. The programme-seller had vanished; but she now returned, bearing a tray with glasses and a brandy bottle. Chairs had been brought from somewhere, and they made Sylvia sit down and made her drink some of the brandy. They made me sit down and drink as well.
They thought that the tragic circumstances of the death of my cousin had upset me. They had. But the death of Mick, terrible though it was, was a small matter compared with the awful truth that some supernatural being was secretly in league with me, ready to destroy anything that stood between me and my desires.
My responsibility was terrifying; and the sense of the nearness of this secret, ghostly presence was unbearable.
CHAPTER VII
Sylvia’s Fears
W
hen we left the theatre (we left it immediately, I believe, though I do not remember leaving it at all) we got into a taxi and drove to Park Lane.
Only Lady Somerton made any effort at conversation; and her observations were such as might be expected to come from a person who saw in the tragedy only the bare fact of a single occurrence. It might have struck her — as I was sure it had struck Sylvia — that to be personally connected with two cases of violent death, happening within six months of each other, makes one uneasy and vaguely superstitious; but she could not guess that both men had stood between me and my desires and that, for that reason, both men were dead.