Chapter Four.
The Note of Interrogation.
On reaching the corridor I was confronted by the thin, spare figure of the Tempter standing resolutely before a closed door—that of Beryl’s chamber.
His black eyes seemed to flash upon me defiantly, and his face had reassumed that expression which was sufficient index to the unscrupulousness of his character.
“Let me pass!” I cried roughly, in my headlong haste. “I desire to see my wife.”
“You shall not enter?” he answered, in a voice tremulous with an excitement which he strove in vain to control.
“She is in distress. I heard her scream. It is my duty, both as a doctor and as her husband, to be at her side.”
“Duty?” he sneered. “My dear sir, what is duty to a man who will sell himself for a handful of banknotes?”
“I yielded to your accursed temptation, it is true!” I cried fiercely. “But human feeling is not entirely dead in my heart, as it is in yours. Thank God that my hands are still unsullied!”
He laughed—the same harsh, discordant laugh that had escaped him when, below in the library, I had refused to accept the vile condition of the compact.
He stood there barring my passage to that room wherein lay the unknown woman who had been so strangely united to me. Whoever she was, I was resolved to rescue her. Mystery surrounded her—mystery that I resolved at all hazards to penetrate.
“You were in want of money, and I offered it to you,” the Tempter answered coldly. “You have refused, and the matter is ended.”
“I think not,” I said warmly. “You will hear something more of this night’s work.”
He laughed again, displaying an uneven row of discoloured teeth. To argue with him further was useless.
“Come, stand aside?” I cried, making a movement forward.
He receded a couple of paces, until he stood with his back against the door, and as I faced him I looked down the shining barrel of a revolver.
I do not know what possessed me at that instant. I did not fully realise my danger, that is certain. My mind was too full of the mystery surrounding the unknown woman who was lying within, and whose hand had showed me that she was no invalid. Physically I am a muscular man, and without a second’s hesitation I sprang upon my adversary and closed with him. His strength was marvellous. I had under-calculated it, for he was wiry, with muscles like iron.
For a few moments we swayed to and fro in deadly embrace, until I felt that he had turned the weapon until the barrel touched my neck. Next instant there was a loud report. The flash burned my face, but fortunately the bullet only grazed my cheek.
I was unharmed, but his deliberate attempt to take my life urged me to desperation, and with an almost superhuman effort I tripped him by a trick, and kneeling upon him, wrenched the weapon from his grasp. Then, leaving him, I dashed towards the door and turned the handle, but in vain. It was locked. Without more ado I stepped back, and taking a run, flung myself against the door, bursting the lock from its socket and falling headlong into the chamber.
The light was insufficient in that great chamber; therefore I drew up one of the blinds partially and crossed to the bed, full of curiosity.
My wife was lying there, silent and still. Her wealth of dishevelled hair strayed across the lace-edged pillow, and the hand with the wedding-ring I had placed upon it was raised above her head and tightly clenched in that attitude often assumed by children in their sleep.
She had screamed. That sound I had heard, so shrill and plain, was undoubtedly the voice of a young woman, and it had come from this room, which was directly above the library. Yet, as far as I could see, there was nothing to indicate the cause of her alarm.
Utterly bewildered, I stood there gazing at the form hidden beneath the silken coverlet of pale blue. The face was turned away towards the wall, so that I could not see it.
Why, I wondered, had the Tempter barred my entrance there with such determination, endeavouring to take my life rather than allow me to enter there?
The small ormolu clock chimed the hour upon its silver bell. It was one o’clock.
Attentively I bent and listened. Her breathing seemed very low. I touched her hand and found it chilly.
For a moment I hesitated to disturb her, for she was lying in such a position that I could not see her face without turning her over. Suddenly, however, it occurred to me that I might draw out the bed from the wall and get behind it.
This I did, but the bed, being very heavy, required all my effort to move it.
Strangely enough at that moment I felt a curious sensation in my mouth and throat, and an unaccountable dizziness seized me. It seemed as though my mouth and lips were swelling, and the thought occurred to me that I might have ruptured a blood-vessel in my exertions in moving the bed.
Eager, however, to look upon the face of the woman who was my wife, I slipped between the wall and the bed, and, bending down, drew back the embroidered sheet which half concealed the features.
I stood dumb-stricken. The face was the most beautiful, the most perfect in contour and in natural sweetness of expression, that I had ever gazed upon. It was the face of a healthful and vigorous girl of twenty, rather than of an invalid—a face about the beauty of which there could be no two opinions. The great blue eyes were wide open, looking curiously into mine, while about the mouth was a half-smile which rendered the features additionally attractive.
“You are ill,” I whispered in a low, intense voice, bending to her. “Cannot you tell me what is the matter? I am a doctor, and will do all in my power to make you better.”
There was no response. The great blue eyes stared at me fixedly, the smile did not relax, the features seemed strangely rigid. Next second a terrible suspicion flashed across my mind, and I bent closer down. The eyes did not waver in the light as eyes must do when a light shines straight into them. I touched her cheek with my hand, and its thrilling contact told me the truth only too plainly.
My wife was dead. She had died before sunset, as the Tempter had intended.
The discovery held me immovable. Hers was a face such as I had never seen before. She was a woman before whom, had I met her in life, I should have fallen down and worshipped. Indeed, strange as it may seem, I confess that, as I stood there, I fell in love with her—even though she was a corpse.
Yet, as my eyes fixed themselves lovingly upon her features, as sweet, tender, and innocent in expression as a child’s, I could not imagine the cause of death. There was no sign of disease or unhealthiness there.
Why had she uttered those screams? Why, indeed, had the door of the death-chamber been afterwards locked? Had she, after all, fallen a victim to foul play?
I drew down the bed-clothes and exposed her neck in order to make an examination. She wore, suspended by a thin gold chain, a small amulet shaped like a note of interrogation and encrusted with diamonds. My observations told me that she had not worn it very long, for the edges of the stones were sharp, yet the delicate skin remained unscratched. A desire possessed me to have some souvenir of her, and without further ado, I unclasped the chain from her neck, and placed it and the little charm in my pocket.
Then, in continuation of my examination, I placed my hand upon her heart, but could detect no cause of death.
Upon her breast, however, I found a curious tattoo-mark—a strange device representing three hearts entwined. Now in my medical experience, I have found that very few women are tattooed. A woman usually shrinks from the operation—which is not unaccompanied by pain—and, on careful examination of this mark, I came to the conclusion that it had been pricked some years ago by a practised hand; further, that it had some distinct and mysterious signification.
It was in the exact centre of the breast, and just sufficiently low to remain concealed when she had worn a décolleté dress. The light was dim and unsatisfactory, but all my efforts to trace the hand of an assassin were futile.
Suddenly, however, as I examined her eyes, the left one, nearest the pillow, bore an expression which struck me as unusual. Both organs of sight seemed to have lost their clearness in the moments I had been standing there, and were glazing as rigor mortis set in, but the left eye was becoming more blurred than its fellow—an unusual circumstance which attracted me. The bright blue which I had seen in its unfathomable depths had contracted in a manner altogether unaccountable until it was now only the size of a pin’s head. I bent again closely and peered into it. Next instant the awful truth was revealed.
She had been foully murdered.
With quick heart-beating I examined the eye carefully, finding symptoms of death from some deliriant—a neurotic acting on the brain and producing delirium, presbyopia, and coma. Certain it was that if this were actually the Tempter’s work, he was a veritable artist in crime, for the manner in which death had been caused was extremely difficult to determine.
Finding myself undisturbed there, I made further and more searching examination, until I held the opinion that death must have been almost, if not quite, instantaneous.
But such theory did not coincide with the screams that had escaped her. On reviewing the whole of the circumstances, I felt confident that she must have been fully conscious at the time, and that those shrieks were shrieks of terror. She had divined the intention of her enemies.
About the vicinity of the bed I searched for any bottle of medicine that might be there, but in vain. If she had really been ill previously, as the Tempter had alleged, the medicine prescribed might give me some clue to the nature of her disease.
Upon a chair close by, her bridal veil of Brussels lace was lying crumpled in a heap, while her gown of white satin was hanging upon the door-knob of the handsome wardrobe. The orange-blossoms diffused their perfume over the room, but to me it was a sickly odour emblematic of the grave.
My wife, the most beautiful woman upon whom my eyes had ever fallen, was lifeless—struck down by the hand of a murderer.
As I bent, looking full into the contracted pupil, I suddenly detected something half concealed in the lace edging of the pillow. I drew it forth, and found it to be a crumpled letter, which I spread out and read. It had evidently been treasured there, just as invalids treasure beneath the bolster all the correspondence they receive.
In an angular hand, evidently masculine, was written the simple words, without address or signature, “I have seen La Gioia!”
Who, I wondered, was “La Gioia”? Was it a happy meeting or a disconcerting one? The announcement was bare enough, without comment and without detail. Significant, no doubt, it had been received by her and kept secret beneath her pillow.
I started across the room to investigate my dead wife’s surroundings and to learn, if possible, by observation, something concerning her life. A room is often indicative of a woman’s character, and always of her habits. The apartment was, I found, artistic and luxurious, while the few books lying about showed her to be a woman of education, culture, and refinement. Upon a little side-table, concealed behind a pile of books, I found a small blue bottle which, taking up, I held to the light, and afterwards uncorked and smelt, wondering whether its odour would give me any clue to its composition. The bottle contained pure chloroform.
Once more I crossed to the bed when, of a sudden, I again felt that strange sensation in my mouth and throat, both of which seemed to contract until my breathing became difficult. I felt half strangled. I fought against the curious feeling that crept over me, but a dizziness seized me, and I was compelled to clutch the foot of the bed in order to steady myself.
My mouth was burning, my head reeling, while my lower limbs seemed to have, in that moment, become cold, benumbed, and devoid of all feeling. I held my breath, determined to battle against the faintness; but all was useless. Sharp, acute pains shot through my legs as though red-hot wires were being thrust through my muscles, and a second later I became seized by a kind of paralysis which held my jaws immovable.
I placed my hands to my parched lips, and found that they had swollen to an enormous size. My tongue seemed too large for my mouth, and my throat so small that I could not swallow.
My head was swimming, but nevertheless I strove to calmly consider my situation. The symptoms were plain enough, and could not be mistaken. The Egyptian cigarette which the Major had given me had been strongly impregnated with some deleterious and poisonous substance.
I had, after all, fallen a hapless victim to my enemies, for by moistening the cigarette I had absorbed the poison, and, by the rapidity with which my mouth was swelling.
I knew that I had been given a fatal dose. With set teeth I stood trying to bear up against the sudden paroxysm of agony, but so excruciating was it that it proved too much. A loud cry escaped me. Writhing in the awful pains that gripped me from head to foot, I grew so weak that my legs refused to support me. Then, out of sheer exhaustion, I sank upon the floor, and the rest became blotted out in unconsciousness.
Chapter Five.
Outward Bound.
Strange noises aroused me slowly to a sense of my helplessness. My head seemed heavy as lead, my brain incapable of receiving any impression, my throat contracted as though by a diphtheritic swelling.
A low continued roaring sounded in my ears, accompanied by a curious unusual jarring. Slow to fully realise my position, it was some moments before I became convinced that the regular throbbing beneath my head was caused by machinery, and that the steady motion to and fro was the rocking of the waves.
I opened my eyes and found that it was broad daylight. To the left was a round opening closed by glass—a porthole through which the summer sun was shining, its rays being shut out now and then by the bright green water that rose against it as the waves hissed past. I was on board a ship at sea. The cabin was a narrow, rather dirty place, and the mattress on which I was lying was hard, being filled with straw. It was not a passenger cabin, that was certain, for the beams across were black and dirty, and swinging on a nail were a set of unclean yellow oil-skins and a sou’-wester.
So sudden and unaccountable had been my transition from the bed-chamber in that mysterious house of the Wynds’, wherein my wife had been murdered, to that narrow pallet out at sea, that at first I could not believe it possible. I raised myself and looked around in wonder, half inclined to believe that the past events had been but a dream.
In that instant all the curious circumstances which had followed my call to the house with the big portico came vividly before me in rapid succession, the crafty actions of the Tempter and my wife’s marvellous beauty most of all. With her, I had fallen a victim to the two ingenious conspirators, her father and the Major. It had, no doubt, been intended that I should die; yet certain of the Tempter’s actions seemed out of keeping with the others, thus rendering the enigma more complete.
The pains in my head and the swelling in my mouth and throat were sufficient, however, to prove that the past was no chimera of the imagination. I had met with an adventure stranger, perhaps, than that experienced by any other man, for I had been both bridegroom and widower within an hour.
With some little difficulty I rose, but my legs were weak and cramped, and this, combined with the rolling of the ship, caused me to quickly seat myself on the edge of the narrow berth. My nerves were unstrung, my brain dulled, and the giddiness that seized me was such as I had never before experienced. It was not mal de mer, for I had travelled much by sea and had never experienced nausea, even in roughest weather. No; I had, by moistening the cigarette with the saliva, absorbed a strong dose of some anaesthetic, and its effect had been to a great extent irritant as well. Only my robust constitution had succeeded in throwing it off; the dose must, I felt confident, have killed a weaker man.
In a few minutes I succeeded in standing erect, and struggled to the cabin door. I turned the handle, but could not open it. I was locked in.
Again I seated myself upon my mattress and tried to calmly review the situation. Of a sudden I bethought myself of the amulet I had taken from the neck of my dead wife, and thrusting my hand into my pocket, was gratified to find it still there, together with a pair of white gloves that the Tempter had given me.
I took it out and carefully examined it. The chain was a very fine but strong one, and the curious little charm of plain gold on that side that would lay against the skin, was beautifully set with diamonds which now sparkled and flashed with a thousand fires in the brilliant sunset. About an inch and a half long, it was of most delicate workmanship. I had seen in jewellers’ windows in Bond Street and Regent Street many articles of jewellery—brooches, breast-pins, and the like—in the form of a note of interrogation, but never one made in this manner. It was different to all the others, a costly ornament without doubt, for all the stones were well matched, and, as far as I could judge, not being an expert, of the first water.
What was its significance, I wondered, as it lay in the palm of my hand. It was a souvenir of her—a souvenir of the woman who was my legal wife, and who had fallen a victim beneath the cruel hand of an assassin.
The crumpled scrap of paper I had also secured I brought from my pocket and likewise examined. The words upon it were in a man’s hand without a doubt—an educated hand which, by its angularity and the formation of the letters might possibly have been acquired on the Continent.
“I have seen La Gioia!”
The words conveyed some distinct message or warning which I could not determine. One fact was, however, plain; if I could discover this mysterious “La Gioia,” be she a woman or an object, I might perhaps ascertain the true meaning of the words, the reason they were penned, and the motive Beryl had in thus treasuring them beneath her pillow.
A desire possessed me to escape from that narrow place wherein the air was stifling. The porthole was screwed down so tightly that I could not move it without a wrench, and the place seemed hermetically sealed.
By the terrible racket of the machinery and the strong smell of tar and oil I felt certain that it was no passenger steamer by which I was travelling. Everywhere were traces of black dust. I dipped my finger in some of it, examining it closely; it was coal dust. The ship was a collier.
I rose again, and taking up a stout piece of wood lying on the floor, battered heavily at the door, demanding release. But the clash and roar of the rickety engines drowned my voice, and I feared that no one could hear me above the din.
A strong sea was running, although the sun shone brightly. We were evidently somewhere in the Channel, but from my porthole I could see no land.
Again and again I battered furiously, until of a sudden I heard gruff voices, and the door was unlocked and opened cautiously, disclosing two rough-looking bronzed seamen, dark-bearded and dressed in patched and faded dungareen.
“Well, mister,” exclaimed the elder of the two, “what’s the fuss?”
“No fuss at all,” I responded. “I only want to be let out.”
“No doubt,” he responded, with a grin at his companion. “You’d like a breath of fresh air—eh?”
“Yes, I should.”
“But sea-air ain’t good for your constitution mister, so you’ll have to stop here. You’ve got a cabin all to yourself, so what more do you want? Perhaps you’d like a bloomin’ saloon?”
“Look here, my man,” I said, as calmly as I could, “just do me a favour and ask your captain to step down here. I’d like to speak to him before the farce proceeds further. You’re only obeying orders by locking me up here, of that I’m sure. But just tell the captain that I’m better, and want to have a word with him.”
Both men looked somewhat surprised.
“We were goin’ to have a look at you in a few minutes, and see whether you’d come to, if you hadn’t have kicked up such a confounded row.”
“Well, go and tell the captain I want to see him,” I said, endeavouring to smile.
“All right, sir, I will,” answered the man; “but I’ll have to lock the door again.”
“Very well,” I laughed. “Only don’t starve me, remember.” The situation seemed humorous.
Both men grinned broadly; the door was closed, and I heard one remark to the other in true cockney English—
“’E ain’t such a vi’lent fellow, after all, Bill.” Five minutes later the door was again opened, and a burly, full-bearded, black-eyed man in a pea-jacket and peaked cap entered the cabin.
“You are the captain, I presume?” I said.
“That’s me,” he answered, leaning against the wooden partition opposite my bunk.
“Well,” I said, “I’d like to know by what right you lock me up here? I’ve been unconscious for a long time, and on coming to myself, I find I’m here onboard your ship at sea, imprisoned, and not allowed out.”
“You’re in here for the benefit of your health,” he answered roughly. “A sea voyage’ll do you good.”
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me the name of the ship on board which I’m taking this pleasure trip?” I said sarcastically.
“Better find that out.”
“No very difficult matter, I suppose,” I answered quite coolly. “Only I should like to point out that even though you may be skipper of this coal hulk, you have no right to imprison me here.”
“I shall do just as I like, cocky,” he responded. “And further, you’d best be quiet and keep a still tongue, or perhaps you won’t see land again.”
“That’s certainly a very genteel speech,” I said; “and perhaps the British Consul at your port of destination will have something to say regarding your conduct.”
“I don’t care a brass button for all the blanked consuls in the whole Consular Service,” he replied, with a coarse laugh. “You are on board my ship, and I’ll give you to understand now, once and for all, that I’m master here.”
“Perhaps you’ll pipe to a different tune when your master’s certificate is suspended for a year or two.”
“It ’ud take a better man than you to suspend it. While you’re on board this craft, it’ll be a wise policy to keep a still tongue in your head.”
“And it will be wiser if you allow me my liberty, and just tell me how and why I came aboard here.”
“You were brought here, but for what reason I don’t know.”
“And who brought me here?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on board when you arrived.”
“The ship was lying in the Thames, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he answered. “It wasn’t on Clapham Common, that’s a certainty.”
“And where are we now?”
“At sea.”
“I’m aware of that, but in what sea—the Channel, the North Sea, or the Atlantic?”
“You’ll know soon enough. Just breathe the ozone, and make yourself comfortable. That’s all you have to do,” he responded, with his bearded chin thrust forward, in an air of unconcern.
“Well, you haven’t provided many creature comforts for me,” I remarked, with a glance round the stuffy little place.
“No, this isn’t exactly a Cunarder,” he admitted. “But I’ll tell the men to bring you some grub, at any rate. Like some duff?”
“You’re very kind; but I’d rather take a walk on deck in order to get an appetite.”
“No; the sun’s a bit too strong,” he answered waggishly. “You might get sunstroke, you know.”
“I shall be asphyxiated if I remain here.”
“Well, that’s a comfortable death, I believe. More than one chap has died for want o’ breath in the hold of this ship when we’ve been trimmin’ coal.”
“Then you refuse me my liberty?” I said, feeling that to argue pleasantly was useless.
“Yes, you’ve got to stay ’ere.”
“By whose orders?”
“That’s my own business,” he growled.
“And mine also,” I responded firmly. “You may be skipper of this craft, but you are not a gaoler, you know.”
“I’m your gaoler, at any rate.”
“That remains to be seen,” I answered. “I suppose you’ve been paid to take me out of the country, like this; but I may as well warn you that you are aiding and abetting a murder, and that when you get ashore you’ll find yourself in a very nasty position.”
“With the Consul, eh?” he laughed. “Well, they’re a decent lot, as a rule. We don’t get much trouble with ’em if we deposit our papers in order.”
“But if I demanded your arrest for illegal imprisonment?”
“I don’t fancy you’d do that, mister,” he responded with sarcasm. “It might be a bit of a bother for me in England, but the foreign police are a bit chary of touching a British capt’n.”
There was, I knew, some truth in that. Yet I did not intend to remain cooped up there, a prisoner, for the remainder of the voyage.
“Well, now, look here,” I said, in a more conciliatory tone. “Why are you not frank with me?”
“Because you ain’t responsible for your actions.”
“And that’s why you won’t allow me on deck?” He nodded.
“Then I suppose when I was handed over to your tender charge they told you I was a lunatic?”
“Well, they said you’d better be kept under restraint. I was told that you’d had a bad touch of the blues, it seems.”
“And yet you took me aboard while I was unconscious,” I said. “That was scarcely a wise proceeding was it?”
“You were here when I returned; I’ve told you I found you here.”
“Then you mean to tell me that you don’t know who paid you to take me on this pleasure trip?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve only received orders, and just observed them.”
“Orders from whom?”
“From my owners.”
“Your owners! What possible interest could your owners have in shipping me aboard while I was unconscious? Who are they?”
“Hanways, of Newcastle.”
“And what ship is this?”
“The Petrel, of Newcastle.”
“Bound for where?”
“No,” he replied. “I’ve strict orders to keep you confined in the cabin, to treat you as well as your behaviour will allow, and to tell you nothing.”
“Well, captain, you’re a sensible man, and surely you’ll listen to reason.”
“What reason? I’ve got my orders. That’s enough for me.”
“But I tell you that by this action you are aiding in the concealment of a terrible crime—the dastardly murder of a lady in London,” I burst forth.
“Of course. That’s the yarn they said you’d spin. Well, you can stow that for the present. I’ll come down and hear it over a pipe, when I want a bit of relaxation. For the time being, just you sniff the ozone, and fancy yourself in a drawin’-room.”
Then, without more ado, the burly fellow made his exit, slammed the heavy door and bolted it, leaving me still a prisoner within that tiny cabin.
Chapter Six.
Captain Banfield Explains.
The hours passed but slowly. The man who had first answered my summons brought me some food but to all my arguments he remained obdurate.
“The cap’n says you’re to stay ’ere,” he responded, “and if I let you out he’d put me in irons. Old Banfield ain’t a skipper to be trifled with, I can tell yer.”
So I remained there, filled with gloomy thoughts, and wondering where I was being taken, and what possible interest Messrs Hanway, the owners of the Petrel, could have in my forcible abduction.
I sat there, helpless and puzzled, until it grew quite dark, then my head feeling heavy, and my limbs exhausted on account of the drug that had been so ingeniously administered to me, I threw myself down, and the motion of the vessel soon lulled me to sleep.
The long green waves were sweeping past in the sunlight when I again opened my eyes, and from the porthole I could see a large steamer with a pair of red and black funnels in the distance, leaving a long trail of smoke behind her. Soon, however, she was beyond the range of my vision, and I could do nothing except sit there and review the whole situation.
The beautiful face of my murdered wife arose ever before me. It seemed to cry to me for vengeance. I was her husband, and I alone knew the truth.
Yet it was evident that I was still in the hands of enemies, and, imprisoned there, I could do nothing.
The day passed, and fortunately I found myself feeling better. The effect of the noxious drug was slowly wearing off; yet the strain upon my nerves was terrible, and the imprisonment, coupled with uncertainty as to the future, was driving me to desperation.
A third day passed, much as the second. The only person I saw was the sailor who brought me food from the cook’s galley in the morning and at evening—badly cooked sailors’ fare that I could scarcely touch. As the sun was sinking, we suddenly approached a blue line of coast, and continued to skirt it until it became swallowed up in the night mists. Then, wearied, I again lay down to sleep.
I was awakened by the sudden stoppage of the engines, and found that it was already day again, and that we were in calm water. Outside my porthole was a flat stone wall which shut out everything.
Much shouting and tramping sounded above, and I knew that we were being made fast at a quay.
My opportunity for escape had arrived. If only I could break open the door, and slip up on deck unobserved, I might regain my freedom.
Now, I had during the past two days made a most careful examination of my cabin and of the door, during which I had noticed that, supporting the box-like berth beneath, was an iron stay, the lower end of which was flattened out so that it could be more easily screwed down to the floor. The screws were loose, like most of the fittings of the badly kept craft; therefore, after some little trouble, I managed to remove it, and found that I held in my hand a capital crowbar.
Presently I managed to work the thin end between the door and the lintel, and then, throwing my whole weight against it, endeavoured to force the outer bolt from its fastenings.
My first attempt was abortive, but I saw that the screws were giving away; therefore I continued my efforts carefully so as not to attract attention, until, of a sudden, the socket of the bolt flew off, and the door was burst open. Then, holding my iron bar in self-defence, I stepped along to the foot of a ladder, by which I climbed on deck.
The vessel, it seemed, was not a large one, and of a particularly dirty and forbidding appearance. With care I crept round the deck-house unobserved, until I reached the gangway, and just as my presence was discovered by the captain, I slipped across it nimbly, and was on the quay amid a crowd of labourers, custom officers, and the usual motley assemblage which gathers to watch an arriving vessel.
I heard the skipper shouting violently, and a couple of the crew started in pursuit; but, taking to my heels I soon outdistanced them, and after some little time found myself walking in a large handsome street lined with fine shops and showy cafés. I was in Christiania.
I inquired in French of several persons the whereabouts of the British Consulate, and about an hour later found myself in the private office of the representative of her Majesty, a tall, good-looking man in a cool suit of white linen.
To him I related the whole circumstances. He listened, but smiled now and then with an air of incredulity. I told him of the murder, of the manner in which my life had been twice attempted, and of the remarkable circumstances of my abduction.
“And you say that you were taken on board the Petrel,” he said reflectively. “I know Captain Banfield quite well. He is a strict disciplinarian, an excellent sailor, and is held in high esteem by his men. We must hear his explanation of the affair at once. If what you have said is true, it is certainly most remarkable.”
I drew the trinket with the golden chain from my pocket, together with the crumpled note, and showed them to him.
“Strange,” he remarked. “Most extraordinary! I’ll send down to the docks for Banfield at once;” and, calling a clerk, he dispatched him in a cab.
In the meantime, in response to his questions, I gave him the most minute details of the startling affairs, as well as the ingenious manner in which Beryl Wynd had been murdered. I knew that the story when related sounded absolutely incredible; but it was equally certain that the Consul, at first inclined to doubt my statement, had now become highly interested in it.
I remarked upon the extraordinary mystery, and its features which seemed to stagger belief.
“But you are a medical man of considerable attainment, I notice from your card,” he resumed. “I have no reason to doubt your story. It is rather a matter which should be strictly inquired into. Any person abducted from England, in the manner you have been, has a right to seek protection and advice of his consul.”
And we continued chatting until, after a lapse of nearly half an hour, the captain of the Petrel, wearing his shore-going clothes, was ushered in.
“Good morning, sir!” he exclaimed, addressing the representative of the Foreign Office, but taking no notice of my presence. “You’ve sent for me?”
“Yes, Captain,” the Consul responded rather severely. “Kindly sit down. There is a little matter upon which you can throw some light. You know this gentleman?”—and he indicated myself.
“Yes, sir. I know ’im.”
“Well, he has lodged a very serious complaint against you, namely, that you have held him a prisoner on board your ship without any just cause; and, further, that contrary to the regulations of the Board of Trade, you carried him from port while in an unconscious condition.” The skipper remained quite unabashed.
“Well, sir,” he answered, “as I’ve already told the gentleman, I’ve only acted under strict orders from my owners. I suppose they’ll take all the responsibility?”
“No; the responsibility rests upon yourself. You’ve held a master’s certificate a good many years, and you are fully acquainted with the Board of Trade regulations.”
“Of course, I don’t deny that,” the other responded.
“But my orders were quite precise.”
“And now, tell me, how came this gentleman on board your ship?”
“To tell the truth, sir, I don’t know exactly. We were lying in the St. Katherine Docks, and my last evening ashore I spent at home with my wife, over at Victoria Park. We were to sail at four o’clock in the morning, but I didn’t get aboard before about ten past four. When I did so, orders from the owners were put into my hand, and I was told that there was a passenger who’d been brought aboard, lying asleep below. ’Ere’s the letter;” and he drew it from his pocket and handed it to the Consul.
The latter read it through, then, with an exclamation of surprise, handed it over to me.
It certainly increased the mystery, for it was from the office of the owners, Messrs Hanway Brothers, in Leadenhall Street, ordering that I should be taken on the round voyage to the Baltic, well cared for, but kept looked in a cabin, as I had developed homicidal tendencies.
“The gentleman, whose name is Doctor Colkirk,” continued the letter, “is subject to fits, in which he remains unconscious for some hours; therefore there is no cause for alarm if he is not conscious when he reaches you. He is under an hallucination that he has been witness of some remarkable crime, and will, no doubt, impress upon you the urgent necessity of returning to London for the prosecution of inquiries. If he does this, humour him, but on no account allow him to go on deck, or to hold conversation with any one. The gentleman is a source of the greatest anxiety to his friends, and, we may add, that if the present orders are strictly carried out, the gentleman’s friends have promised the payment of a handsome bonus to yourself. We therefore place him on board the Petrel, in preference to any other vessel of our fleet, because of the confidence we entertain that you will strictly carry out your orders.”
The letter was signed by the firm.
“It seems very much as though the owners had some object in sending you aboard,” observed the Consul.
Then, turning to the skipper, he asked, “How was the gentleman brought on board?”
“He was brought in a private carriage about six o’clock in the evening, my men say. Two gentlemen carried him on board. The dock police stopped them, but they told the constable that the gentleman was drunk.”
“And when you received this letter, what did you do?”
“Well, I put him in the second mate’s cabin, and left him alone till two days later, when he came to. Then I just carried out my orders.”
“Where are you bound for?”
“The round trip—Stockholm, Riga, St. Petersburg, Drammen, Christiansund, and home.”
“That means a month.”
“More—six weeks.”
“Your owners, therefore, were anxious that the doctor should be absent from England during that time. There is some mystery here, on the face of it. Doctor Colkirk has related to me a very remarkable story, and the most searching inquiry should be instituted.”
“Well, sir,” Banfield said apologetically, “I hope you don’t consider my conduct bad. I’ve only carried out my orders to the letter. You see I didn’t know that the gentleman was on board until we’d actually left the quay; and the letter says, quite distinctly, that he’s subject to fits, therefore I let him remain quiet until he regained consciousness.” Then, turning to me, he added, “I trust, sir, that you’ll accept my apology.”
“That’s all very well,” interposed the Consul; “but you know that you did entirely wrong in sailing with an unconscious stranger on board.”
“I admit that. But you see I had my orders, sir.”
“Who delivered them to you?” I inquired.
“The two gentlemen who brought you on board,” he responded.
“Have any of your men described them to you?”
“They only said that they were both well dressed, and about middle age.”
They were, without doubt, the Tempter and his accomplice. The conspiracy had been conceived and carried out with amazing ingenuity.
“And they brought the doctor on board and delivered this letter?”
“Yes, sir. They afterwards re-entered the carriage and drove away.”
“Well,” said the Consul, “the only course I see is for the doctor to take this letter, return to London, and seek an explanation of your owners.”
“No, sir, I shan’t give up the letter. It’s written to me,” demurred the captain.
“But it is in my hands,” responded the Consul. “I am making inquiries into this affair, and I shall act as I think best in the interest of all parties concerned. The letter is your property, certainly; but recollect that this affair may prove very awkward for your owners. Therefore, take my advice, Captain, and assist this gentleman in his inquiries.”
“I protest against you keeping the letter.”
“Very well, I will see that your protest is forwarded to your owners,” replied the Consul; and he handed me the letter, saying—
“Your best course. Doctor, is to return by the Wilson boat to Hull. She sails this afternoon at four. Then go down to Leadenhall Street and, make inquiries—it seems a strange affair, to say the least.”
“It is entirely unaccountable,” I said. “There seems to have been a widespread plot against me, with a single motive—the concealment of the murder of Beryl Wynd.”
“But in that case why not let me telegraph to Scotland Yard?” suggested the Consul, as the sudden idea occurred to him. “They would watch the house until your return. To-day is Tuesday. You’ll be in London on Thursday night, or early on Friday morning.”
The proposal was an excellent one, and I gladly acceded. Next instant, however, the bewildering truth flashed across my mind. I had not hitherto realised my position. My heart sank within me.
“Would that your suggestion could be carried out,” I replied. “But, truth to tell, I don’t know the house, for I took no notice of its situation, and am unable to tell the name of the road.”
“Ah! how extremely unfortunate. London is a big place, and there are thousands of houses that are outwardly the same. Didn’t the servant who called at your surgery give you the address?”
“No; she gave it to the cabman, but I did not catch it. Men of my profession take little heed of the exterior of houses. We make a note of the number in our visiting-books—that’s all.”
“Then you really haven’t any idea of the situation of the house in which the tragedy occurred?”
“None whatever,” I replied. A moment later a further thought occurred to me, and I added, “But would not the registry of marriages give the address of my bride?”
“Why, of course it would!” cried the Consul excitedly. “An excellent idea. Return to London as quickly as you can, and search the marriage register. From that I’m certain you’ll obtain a clue.”
Chapter Seven.
My New Patient.
On Friday morning I entered the office of Messrs Hanway Brothers in Leadenhall Street, and after a short wait was accorded an interview with the manager.
I demanded, of course, an explanation why I had been shipped away from London in such a summary manner, whereupon he apparently regarded me as a lunatic.
“I really had no knowledge of the affair,” he replied, smiling incredulously. “Do you actually allege you were taken on board the Petrel and kept imprisoned in a cabin by Captain Banfield? A most extraordinary story, to say the least.”
I told him of the inquiries made by the British Consul in Christiania, and added—
“I have here the captain’s written orders from your firm, signed by yourself.” And I produced the letter.
He glanced it through eagerly, and then carefully scrutinised the signature.
“This renders the affair far more mysterious,” he exclaimed with increased interest. “The letter-paper is certainly ours, but the whole thing is a forgery.”
“It is not your signature?”
“No, certainly not—only a clumsy imitation;” and taking up a pen, he wrote his signature and handed them both to me for comparison. At once I saw that several of the peculiarities of his handwriting were absent from Banfield’s orders.
“The type-writing is done by a different machine to ours. We use Bar-Locks, while this has probably been written by a Remington,” he went on. “Besides, look at the edge of the paper, and you’ll see that it is badly cut. It is, without doubt, a sheet out of several reams, that were delivered by the stationers some months ago, and were rejected by me because of the careless manner in which the edges had been cut.”
Then he touched his bell and the chief clerk appeared. To him he showed the letter, and without a moment’s hesitation he declared it to be a forgery.
Without going into details of the events of that memorable night, I described how I had recovered consciousness to find myself at sea, and the strict obedience, of the captain to the orders he had received.
“Well, all I can conjecture is,” declared the manager, much puzzled, “that you have fallen the victim of some clever conspiracy. The details show that there was some strong motive for your abduction, and that the conspirators well knew that Banfield remained at home until almost the last moment before sailing. They were, therefore, enabled to put you on board during his absence. The forged orders, too, were brief and well to the point—in fact, worded just as they might be if sent from this house. No; depend upon it there has been some very ingenious plotting somewhere.”
I remained with him a short time longer, then, realising the uselessness of occupying his time, I withdrew, and in further prosecution of my inquiries drove to Doctors’ Commons.
Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed of distinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the special licence by which I had been married had been applied for by Beryl herself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, “Beryl Wynd.”
I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, for it prayed “that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation of marriage in the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, between herself and Richard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road, Hammersmith.” Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before—soon after I had accepted Raymond’s invitation to be his guest.
But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wife’s address, and in this I was successful, for in the same document I found that she was described as “Beryl Grace Wynd, spinster, of 46, Earl’s-court Road, Kensington.”
I had, at least, gained knowledge of the house in which the tragedy had been enacted.
“When the young lady called to make this application, were you present?” I inquired eagerly.
“Yes. I saw her.”
“What was she like? Could you give me a description of her?”
“She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright.”
“And her hair?”
“It was of a colour rather unusual,” answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. “A kind of golden-brown.”
The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accord applied for a licence to marry me. The mystery increased each moment.
“Was she alone?” I inquired.
“No. Her father was with her.”
“How did you know he was her father?”
“He introduced himself to me as such—Major Wynd.”
“Major Wynd!” I ejaculated. “But Mr Wynd is not an officer. What kind of man is he?”
“Of military appearance, round-faced, and good-humoured.”
“Old?”
“Certainly not—scarcely fifty. He wore a single eyeglass.”
The description did not answer to that of the Tempter, but rather to that of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed as Beryl’s father, and had given his consent to the marriage.
The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who wore steel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured to learn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was making inquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfied myself by another glance at the signatures, I bade him good afternoon.
After a hasty lunch in a bar at the foot of Ludgate Hill, I set forth by the underground railway to Earl’s Court, and experienced but little difficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, between Park Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that it was not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been a big, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four huge pillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps ten rooms.
Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summons was answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady, and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and had never heard the name of Wynd.
“Have you ever let your house furnished?” I inquired.
“Never,” She responded. “But the name is somewhat uncommon, and you ought to have no difficulty in finding the address.”
“I hope sincerely that I shall,” I answered, and, apologising for disturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife had purposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on a wrong scent.
Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in my mind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at the corner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly. But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could I find it among those of people living in the suburbs.
I called upon the Vicar of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynd’s, and he did not know his address.
It seemed suspiciously as though the name of Wynd was an assumed one. If a false address had been given by the Major at Doctors’ Commons, then in all probability the surname was likewise false.
Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in Rowan Road before the door of Bob Raymond’s house, and entered with my latch-key.
Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me.
“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “wherever had you been all this week? I felt certain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got my daughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I’m so glad you are back again sir. It’s given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in Lloyd’s and Reynolds’.”
“Well, I’m back again, Mrs Bishop,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “And I’m confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, there’s a good woman.” And I ascended to Bob’s cosy little den from which I had been so suddenly called seven days before.
So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be very surprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care of itself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curious form. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my return and promising explanations later.
I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged in thought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea.
“Well,” I asked, “I suppose there have been no new patients during my absence?”
“Oh, yes. One, sir.”
“Who was it?”
“A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence, and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you’d been called out two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you’d be in, and I said I didn’t know for certain. So she called again later, and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as you were still absent, she left her card. Here it is.” And Mrs Bishop took a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon it was the name, “Lady Pierrepoint-Lane.”
“Was she young or old?”
“Rather young, sir—not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed in deep mourning.”
“And you have seen nothing more of her?” I inquired interestedly. “There’s no address on the card.”
“She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned, left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival.” And the woman fumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a dainty note, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms.
The heading was “88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park,” and the brief note ran—
“Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk could make it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity.”
Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett’s Baronetage, in Raymond’s bookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of Sir Henry Pierrepoint-Lane, Bart., a wealthy landowner and the patron of several livings in Yorkshire and Shropshire whose principal seat was Atworth, in Wiltshire. His wife was the eldest daughter of General Sir Charles Naylon, late of the Indian army.
Having re-read the short paragraph in the Baronetage, which gave a facsimile of the coat-of-arms upon the envelope, I sipped my tea and then wrote a short note regretting my absence from home, and stating my intention to call upon the following morning at eleven o’clock. This I dispatched by boy-messenger.
Hence it was that next morning, when I passed down Stanhope Street and turned into Gloucester Gardens, I felt in no mood to humour and sympathise with the whims and imaginary maladies of a fashionable patient.
With a feeling of irritation and low spirits, I mounted the steps of the house in Gloucester Square and inquired for my new patient.
I was ushered into a pretty morning-room, and shortly afterwards there entered a slim, youngish-looking woman, not exactly handsome, but of refined appearance, dark, with hair well coiled by an expert maid, and wearing a simple dress of pearl-grey cashmere, which clung about her form and showed it to distinct advantage. Before she had greeted me I saw that she was a type subject to nerve-storms, perhaps with a craving for stimulants after the reaction.
“Good morning, Doctor,” she exclaimed, crossing the room and greeting me pleasantly. “I received your note last night. You were absent each time I called.”
“Yes,” I responded. “I was called out to an urgent case, and compelled to remain.”
“Does that happen often in your profession?” she asked, sinking into a chair opposite me. “If it does, I fear that doctors’ wives must have an uncomfortable time. Your housekeeper was quite concerned about you.”
“But when one is a bachelor, as I am, absence is not of any great moment,” I laughed.
At that moment her dark, brilliant eyes met mine, and I fancied I detected a strange look in them.
“Well,” she said with some hesitation, “I am very glad you have come at last, Doctor, for I want to consult you upon a secret and very serious matter concerning myself, and to obtain your opinion.”
“I shall be most happy to give you whatever advice lies in my power,” I responded, assuming an air of professional gravity, and preparing myself to listen to her symptoms. “What is the nature of your ailment?” I inquired.
“Well,” she answered, “I can scarcely describe it: I seem in perpetually low spirits, although I have no cause whatever to be sad, and, further, there is a matter which troubles me exceedingly. I hardly like to confess it, but of late I have developed a terrible craving for stimulants.”
I put to her a number of questions which it is unnecessary here to recount, and found her exactly as I had supposed—a bundle of nerves.
“But this unaccountable craving for stimulants is most remarkable,” she went on. “I am naturally a most temperate woman, but nowadays I feel that I cannot live without having recourse to brandy or some other spirit.”
“Sometimes you feel quite well and strong, then suddenly you experience a sensation of being extremely ill?” I suggested.
“Exactly. How do you account for it?”
“The feeling of strength and vigour is not necessarily the outcome of actual strength, any more than is the feeling of weakness the necessary outcome of actual weakness,” I responded. “A person may be weak to a degree, and the sands of life be almost run out, and yet feel overwhelmingly strong and exuberantly happy, and, on the other hand, when in sound and vigorous health, he may feel exhausted and depressed. Feelings, especially so with women of the better class, rise into being in connexion with the nervous system. Whether a person feels well or ill depends upon the structure of his nervous system and the way in which it is played upon, for, like a musical instrument, it may be made to give forth gay music or sad.”
“But is not my case remarkable?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I responded.
“Then you think that you can treat me, and prevent me from becoming a dipsomaniac?” she said eagerly.
“Certainly,” I replied. “I have no doubt that this craving can be removed by proper treatment. I will write you a prescription.”
“Ah?” she exclaimed, with a sigh. “You doctors, with your serums and the like, can nowadays inoculate against almost every disease. Would that you could give us women an immune from that deadly ailment so common among my sex, and so very often fatal.”
“What ailment?” I asked, rather surprised at her sudden and impetuous speech.
“That of love!” she responded in a low, strained voice—the voice of a woman desperate.