Collected works of j s f.., p.175
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 175
“Well, we shall see,” said Herbert. “After the reports of the inquest have appeared in the newspapers there’ll be enough publicity about the matter to bring Gemma Graffi and the unknown man out of a mouse-hole if they’d crept into it. We shall see, I say.”
But at the end of a further week they were not seeing any more or any further into the mystery. As Herbert had prophesied, the newspapers were full of the Austerlitz Mansions mystery; the death of Marco Graffi, the disappearance of his granddaughter, became the nine days’ wonder of the town. But the police heard nothing of the man who had lived at the Café Aldobrandini, nor of Gemma Graffi; nor did those amateur detectives, who invariably spring to light at such times, bring any information or clues to the regular ones. If either the man or the girl were in London, or in England, they remained very safely hidden. If both, or either had escaped to the Continent they seemed to have become just as safely hidden there, for the Continental police sent no news of them in spite of urgent representations on the part of the English authorities. And Wirlescombe, with whom Graye kept in constant touch, was at his wits’ end, and foresaw the moment when he would have to confess himself unable to do any more. It was only too probable, he said, that if the truth ever came out, it would have to come out accidentally, for he himself could see no further track to follow up.
And then, without warning, information came.
Graye, working in the laboratory one day, looked up from a tank in which he was absorbed to find a house-porter at his elbow.
“You’re wanted at the telephone, Mr. Graye,” said the man. “The call’s urgent, sir.”
“I can’t go,” answered Graye. “I can’t leave this. Say so, and ask who it is.”
For he had forgotten all about the Graffi case for the moment, and he was deeply interested in what he was doing. But he forgot that in turn when the porter came back.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Graye, still annoyed at the interruption.
“It’s from New Scotland Yard, sir. They say, will you go at once to Soho Square, and meet Mr. Wirlescombe at the top of Green Street? They say something has been discovered. It’s that Graffi case, sir — they said you’d know all about it.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Graye. “All right. Get me a taxi-cab.”
He left his experiment on which he had been working so absorbedly, tore off his overall, and set out to find Herbert. Three minutes later they were speeding away in the direction of Soho, speculating on what they might be about to hear. And Graye was conscious then that he was deeply and earnestly anxious to know something, anything, about Gemma Graffi which would convince him of her safety.
Wirlescombe was awaiting them at the top of Green Street. With him was a man, obviously an Italian, who was strange to them; there too, looking very grave, was Signor Aldobrandini. Wirlescombe looked grave also as the two medical students left their cab and advanced upon him. He greeted them with a nod, but with no words, for words, indeed, he had no time at first, for Graye rapped out one word before the detective could speak. “Well?” he demanded.
Wirlescombe nodded again.
“Yes. Something’s been found at last,” he said.
“About Miss Graffi?” asked Graye, more impatiently than before.
Wirlescombe shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “Not about her. About — the man. In fact his body’s been found.”
“His body; He’s dead then?” exclaimed Graye.
“Dead enough — most likely murdered,” replied the detective. “In fact, I’m sure he was. I want you and Mr. Aldobrandini to see him and to identify the body if you can. It — it may be a little difficult. It isn’t — I warn you it isn’t a pleasant sight.”
Graye shrugged his shoulders. Most of his interest had already died out. After all, he was not greatly concerned with the unknown man; he wanted to hear something of Gemma.
“Where was the man found?” he asked, half indifferently.
Wirlescombe shepherded his small flock together with a motion of his hand. He moved off in front with Graye and Herbert on either side of him; the other men followed behind, chattering voluble Italian.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “This man behind us, with Aldobrandini, is an Italian, who owns a bit of house property down one of these courts. A hundred years ago, I daresay the houses were very good, and would be considered handsome. Now they’re falling into rack and ruin. He’s had one of them empty for some time. During that time he’s never been in it. It occurred to him this morning that he would look over it with the idea of doing something or other about it, so he came to it, and looked it over. And in one of the rooms he found the body I am taking you to see.”
“How had he been killed?” asked Herbert.
“Shot,” replied Wirlescombe. “Shot through the brain. And — he must have been dead some time. Here’s the house!”
He had led them into an ancient-looking court, fenced about with houses built in Georgian times; the one at which he pointed stood in a corner, and wore the peculiarly lifeless and disconsolate appearance which is always the mark of houses that have for a time been untenanted. A policeman stood in the slightly open doorway; another was visible within the hall.
“I’ve already been in and seen the body,” continued the detective as they entered the house. “I should say it is certainly that of the man you saw at Austerlitz Mansions; but I want to know what you have to say about it, and if Aldobrandini can recognise it as that of his lodger. The most extraordinary thing to my mind is what was the man doing in this empty house. According to the landlord it hasn’t been occupied for eighteen months.”
“It looks like it,” said Graye, as they went up the stairs. He was wondering if Gemma, too, had been lured to that place, and made away with. It was not unlikely. If a man could be brought there and murdered, why not a girl? He shuddered at the notion.
“Yes, it’s as cold as the grave in here,” said Wirlescombe, mistaking the idea in his companion’s mind. “I’ve just been telling the owner that the best thing he could do would be to make a bonfire of these old places and build some new ones. Here’s the room: right at the top, you see. And once more I say, I’m wondering what the man could be.”
He led the way into a room, inside which a man in plain clothes and a police-constable were talking in a whisper. There was not a stick of furniture in the place. The windows were blackly and thickly coated with dirt. The ceiling was literally festooned with cobwebs, the floor of bare boards was deep in dust. And on it, near the rusty fireplace, lay something which was covered up with a piece of brown sacking.
The men who had accompanied Wirlescombe upstairs removed their hats, and stood silently by while he turned back the covering from the dead man. Aldobrandini and Graye bent down to examine the features. The Italian proprietor of the café-restaurant immediately became excited.
‘Oh, yes, that is the man what take my room! I know him in spite of — you know, eh? Oh, yes — I know his face, his clothes, yes. Poor fellow — he wear them clothes when he go out that night. Of course. Oh, to be sure, yes!”
Wirlescombe turned to Graye. And Graye nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That’s the man who came to Graffi’s. I haven’t a doubt of it. I’m sure of his identity.”
The detective pointed a finger.
“You see where he was shot?” he said. “From behind the ear. Murder, of course, because if he’d shot himself, the weapon would have been close at hand and it wasn’t. And there was nothing in the shape of letters or papers on him. Not a scrap. My idea is that he was lured in here on some pretence or pretext, and was shot at once. Of course, there’s no clue,” he added, laying the sheet back over the dead man. “We’re no nearer knowing who he was than we were before.”
“Has the house been searched?” asked Herbert.
“Oh, yes, from top to bottom, and there was nothing found,” replied Wirlescombe. “Well, now we know something, at any rate. We must try to trace this man abroad. He must have come from somewhere. And there may be others in London who know him. However, that’s all we can do just now.”
Downstairs Adrian Graye drew the detective aside.
“You haven’t heard anything of Miss Graffi?” he asked.
“Not a word,” replied Wirlescombe. “I’m about despairing of ever doing so.”
“Do you think she, too, has — you know!” said Graye, nodding in the direction of the room where the dead man lay. “Do you — really?”
“God knows, sir; I don’t!” answered Wirlescombe. “I hope not. But it’s a strange thing we can’t hear of her.”
Graye nodded. Then he gave Wirlescombe a queer, keen look.
“You know that — that costume we got from Shipps?” he said. “I want it.”
Wirlescombe stared at his companion and suddenly comprehended.
“All right, sir,” he said. “I’ll bring it to you. And I give you my word, Mr. Graye, I’d do anything to find that girl, sir. But—”
He ended with an expressive shrug of the shoulders, and Graye nodded and went off in silence.
END OF THE FIRST PART
PART THE SECOND. THE PATH OF THE TIGER
CHAPTER I
MEETINGS
THE BIG BRONZED, golden-bearded man who got leisurely out of the little local train when it pulled up wearily in the small one-platformed village station of Ashendyke, looked around him with some astonishment as he set foot on the flower-bordered asphalt. The buildings were gay with flags, and banners, and bunting. Festoons of coloured paper hung wherever two points could be connected. Venetian masts were set up in the stationmaster’s garden. Down the road leading to the village, the church tower of which could be seen rising above the elms in the distance, a triumphal arch of evergreen was set up and surmounted by an inscription, which suggested that the villagers either just had been or were just about to be extremely glad to see somebody. It was evident that Ashendyke was en fête on this fine May afternoon. The stranger observed that the stationmaster and the one porter and the one ticket-clerk were all wearing their best clothes, and wore small bouquets of about the size of saucers in their buttonholes. But he was just then more curious about his own immediate concerns than about those of other folk, and he addressed the stationmaster with a personal question.
“I am come on a visit to Dr. Herbert. How far is it to his house?” he inquired.
“A good mile and a half, sir,” answered the station-master. “But — are you Mr. Graye?”
“I am,” replied the arrival.
“Then I’ve a message for you, sir. Dr. Herbert has just gone down the road in his car, and he’ll be back and pick you up in a few minutes. Jim, take this gentleman’s luggage outside. If you watch the road there, sir, going down ‘by the wood yonder, you’ll see the doctor coming back — he’s only gone to the farmhouse there.”
Adrian Graye, widened out into a particularly strong and athletic-looking man by six years of continuous travel in all parts of the world, gave a careless glance at the road, and a longer one at the decorations, which fluttered and flapped on all sides of him.
“Are you expecting a royal visit?” he asked, smiling.
The stationmaster smiled in response.
“Well, not quite that, but something like it, sir,” he answered. “Lady Wargrave and the young baronet are coming home.”
“Oh!” said Graye. “I don’t know who they are. The young baronet is your lord of the manor, I suppose? Has he just come of age?”
The stationmaster laughed.
“The young baronet’s only about three years old, sir,” he answered. “But it’s the first time he’s ever been here, or his mother either, for that matter. You see, sir, the late Sir Robert was a great traveller. You may have heard of him, and he spent most of his time in foreign parts, and the last time he was here was five years since. Then he went off again, and we heard he’d married a young foreign lady. And they hadn’t been married long before he died, and since then she’s lived abroad with the little boy. But now they’re coming home, sir, and of course there’s a bit of jollification going forward, for everybody wants to see the young baronet and his mother.”
“Of course,” agreed Graye. “And where is the young gentleman’s place, then?”
The stationmaster pointed to the great elms, amidst which the high square tower of the village church rose, topped by a bravely-waving red and white flag of St. George.
“Ashendyke Manor lies behind the church, sir,” he said. “It’s a lovely old Queen Anne house — quite a show place, what with its architecture, its pictures and old furniture. If you’re going to stay a while with Dr. Herbert, sir, you should take the opportunity of looking over it.”
“I should be glad to,” answered Graye. “It sounds attractive.”
“Here’s Dr. Herbert coming now, sir,” said the porter. “Just coming round the bend by the wood.”
Graye went outside the station to greet the old friend whom he had not seen for several years. He was conscious of a subdued emotion, of a suppressed excitement. With the exception of his own mother and his two sisters he had seen none of his friends or acquaintances of his youth since his recent return to England. He stared with a certain wistfulness at Herbert as the young doctor drove his motor-car up to the station, and Herbert stared hard and smilingly at him as they gripped each other’s hands. But with the characteristic reserve of Englishmen they said little while in the presence of the stationmaster and his men, and it was not until they had moved off into the road leading towards the village that they gave each other a long searching look. At the end both laughed.
“Upon my word, old chap, I don’t know whether I should have known you!” exclaimed Herbert. “You seem to have thickened and developed out of all knowledge. And a beard! You look like a veritable Viking.”
“And you look like a highly respectable country practitioner, greatly beloved by dowagers and gouty old patients,” said Graye. “Dear me! — when one comes to think of it, it seems that we shall have a vast deal to tell each other. By the way you didn’t tell me in your note — is there a Mrs. Herbert by this time, or are we speeding to a bachelor establishment?”
“There is no Mrs. Herbert, nor likely to be at present,” answered the young doctor. “All my time, my dear boy, has been given to this practice since I bought it — it’s a widely-spread neighbourhood, and I’ve had so much to do of late that I shall have to get an assistant. Of course, there isn’t a Mrs. Graye either, Adrian?”
“No,” said Graye, “there isn’t.”
“One in the immediate future?”
“No, not one in the immediate future.”
“I should have thought that you might have brought back one of those charming Spanish-Mexican senoritas that you stopped so long amongst,” observed Herbert. “Or a beauty from the Argentine. By George, you must tell me all about your, travels! But — now that you are back, what are you going to do?”
“Probably travel again,” answered Graye laconically. “Then — you’ve definitely given up the profession?”
“I won’t say that. I still keep up a certain amount of study, you know. But remember, I’m not yet thirty-two, and I should like to see a bit more of the world. Perhaps I’ll begin practising when I’m forty.”
“I thought you’d like, perhaps to come here and have a partnership with me. It’s a lovely district, nice people, and lots of society, to which we’re expecting a noble addition this very afternoon. That’s why the decorations are everywhere. Lady Wargrave is coming home — a young widow, with an infant son that is a baronet and possessor of a fine estate.”
“So the stationmaster told me,” said Graye. “And who is, or was Lady Wargrave. I’ve heard of her late husband — he was the Asiatic explorer.”
“Nobody knows who she was,” answered Herbert. “Some foreign beauty that Sir Robert met abroad. These are the principal gates to Ashendyke Manor,” he continued, drawing Graye’s attention to a fine old entrance gate beyond which an avenue of limes led to a pile of old red-brick seen in the distance. “And there’s a glimpse of the house — a grand old place. And here, round the corner, is the large square, and the half-timbered house you see yonder is the abode of your humble servant.”
Graye looked around with interest. He found himself gazing at what was really a small, village green, fenced in on all four sides by the various things which had sprung up about it during many centuries of old English life. On one side was the church, with its schools and vicarage, sheltered beneath rows of great elms over which the rooks were wheeling under a canopy of blue sky; on another, set in high hedge of yew, was a second entrance to the Manor; on two other sides were half-timbered houses, mostly thatched, amongst which was a quaint old inn — the Ashendyke Arms. And in the centre of the green was a giant oak-tree, around the trunk of which was a circular seat, whereon, at that moment, several ancient men sat presumably discussing the great event of the day. From every house flags were flying; at the entrance to the green was another triumphal arch; children were running about in their Sunday attire; all over the scene was a general air of festivity. But to these evidences of rejoicing Graye paid little attention. He was more concerned with the old-world aspect of the village.
“It’s quite refreshing to see something really English,” he said as they drew up before Herbert’s house. “This is a real old-fashioned place! It almost tempts me to take your offer, Jack, if only to come and live in a fine old house like this.”
“It’s big enough for two, or for three,” said Herbert, as he led the way inside. “I’m lost in it. My predecessor had a family of six sons and five daughters, and a very fine family, too. As for me, I have no family beyond a couple of fox-terriers and a cat. Come in, old chap, and a thousand welcomes!”
From the windows of the room which Herbert had set apart for him, Graye looked out on scenes vastly different to those to which his eyes had been accustomed for the past six years. Those of one side of the room commanded the green; from another side he looked into a delightful garden set amidst high hedges and just then glowing and gay with spring flowers. He had seen masses of greater and bolder colour during his long travels in the great American continent which he had traversed in all its length from Canada to Patagonia; but there was a charm and a simplicity in the trim holly-hedges, the neat paths, the homely flowers and plants of this English garden which attracted him strangely. And in looking out upon it he suddenly forgot the six years of travel, and his mind went back to things as they had been before he left England. He remembered his father’s house and garden in Yorkshire; he remembered his own student days in London — and then he thought of the strange event of the night of the great fog, and unconsciously he sighed.
