The lyttleton case, p.8
The Lyttleton Case, page 8
The inspector had just been reading aloud extracts from an article by a famous Cabinet Minister, who was also a sensational journalist of the first water, on an alleged conspiracy of Sinn Fein, the Bolsheviks, and the Kaiser, to blow up St Paul’s Cathedral, rob the Bank of England, and generally to harass and annoy the governing class of Great Britain: his most sacred feelings were outraged by this revelation of the baseness of mankind, his face went purple, his eyes bulged and his voice became scarcely articulate; at the word ‘Socialist’ he choked.
‘I’d send every one of these blackguards to prison for life,’ he said, ‘and as for the Sinn Feiners, I would pass a law to do away with them altogether—what I can’t—’
At this moment came a sharp knock at the front door.
‘Who ever can that be at this time o’ night?’ said Mrs Dyson, as she put down her work and rose from her chair.
‘An official high up, like myself, in the service of His Majesty’s Government, is always liable to interruptions and distractions,’ was the dignified reply of her spouse, as he deftly whisked the jug and glass into the sideboard out of sight of prying, irreverent or unofficial eyes.
The front door opened, Mrs Dyson was confronted by a sturdy looking young man in a tweed suit and gaiters, holding a bicycle.
‘Is Inspector Dyson at home?’ he said.
‘Might I ask what your business is?’
‘My name is Thorogood, from Thorogood’s farm over yonder, off the Downville Road, and I wish to speak to Inspector Dyson on a private matter which is very urgent indeed.’
‘Then you had better step inside … My dear, here’s someone to see you on very urgent business.’ Thus saying, the worthy lady ushered the stranger into the domestic holy of holies, and retired herself to the solitude of the kitchen, where, like a good housewife, she was able to find solace for her thwarted curiosity in the performance of necessary tasks.
In the meantime the visitor introduced his business, saying, ‘I come from a gentleman named Candlish, who has had a bad accident. He is at my father’s farm and wishes to see you at the earliest possible moment on important official business. He said I was to be sure to tell you that not a word of this must be mentioned to a human soul—not even to Mrs Dyson.’
The inspector was so astonished at this announcement that he could only stare. He began mechanically to search his pockets for the note-book and well-sucked pencil so dear to members of his profession, when the stranger added:
‘Perhaps you would like to borrow my bicycle, inspector. It is quite easy to find the way, and it is a light night; please do start quickly though, as poor Mr Candlish is very bad. I am going on now to get hold of Doctor Jennings, in order to take him back with me. Here’s the machine. I’ll stand it up against the door. See you later.’
Before the inspector could gasp out that he would call first thing in the morning, the young man had disappeared; it was too late to back out of his adventure, so he decided to see it through.
By nature and by training he was slow—slow in thought and slow in action. To him, as to the average solicitor, folly and haste, delay and wisdom were synonymous. Reason after reason, all equally cogent, arose in his mind in favour of waiting or of postponing his departure; but at last the reflection that the longer he put off starting, the later he would be getting back, conquered his irresolution, so he opened the kitchen door and said in a stern, mysterious tone:
‘Important official business requires my attention, Mary, I must go out at once; you had better not sit up, as I may be late.’
After putting on his boots, he kissed the partner of his joys and sorrows, telling her to be sure to leave the stout on the table for his return. Then mounting the stranger’s bicycle, he rode off into the night.
The way was familiar to him, and he got over the ground fairly quickly, arriving at the farm just as Doctor Jennings and young Thorogood drove up in the former’s car.
The party were admitted to the house by Mr Thorogood, Senior, who said, as his son introduced the new-comers:
‘I am glad you’ve come, gentlemen, the missis is sitting with poor Mr Candlish now, and we’ve both been very anxious about him.’
‘I think, perhaps, I’d better go up at once,’ said the doctor, who, suiting the action to the word, picked up his bag and asked the farmer to take him up to the sick man.
In about twenty minutes Doctor Jennings reappeared, and said, ‘I’m afraid, Inspector, you won’t be able to see this poor fellow tonight. He is drifting into unconsciousness, and I am very much afraid he’s in for an attack of brain fever. He kept on repeating, “Tell Dyson to report to Scotland Yard—keep secret at Hillborough.”’
‘What’s the matter with him, doctor?’
‘He’s had two wounds on the head. One of them looks to me as if a bullet had made it; luckily it glanced off the bone instead of going through it: another inch and he would have been done for. But how did he get to your house, Mr Thorogood?’
‘Well, doctor, it was about nine o’clock, or a few minutes earlier, my missus heard a feeble rap at the door, and there she found this poor gentleman, dripping wet through as if he’d been in a muddy pond, bleeding at the forehead with blood all over his face, looking ghastly, you can imagine, and scarcely able to hold himself upright. Many women would have been upset, but my missus is a plucky one, so she took hold of him and drew him into the house, got him on to the couch, and then ran off to fetch me and my son, who were just looking round the farm to see that all the beasts were safe for the night.
‘Between us we carried him upstairs and got his clothes off. He managed to get out that his name was Candlish, and that he wanted Inspector Dyson fetched at once, and he kept repeating that no one else must know of his being here. “Let them think I’m dead,” he said over and over again.
‘My missus tied a bandage round his head to stop the flow of blood till the doctor could be got here. That’s the whole story, gentlemen.’
‘Then he said nothing about what happened to him?’
‘Not a word, but judging from the state of his clothes, which are hanging up in the kitchen, it looks as if he had fallen into the pond along yonder in the woods about half a mile away. Whether he fell in or was pushed, I can’t say.’
‘I am afraid there is nothing more I can do for him tonight,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ve tied up his head and given him something to make him sleep. I’ll be round again first thing in the morning.’
‘Before you go, doctor, I think we ought all to have a word together,’ said the inspector. ‘Mr Thorogood, will you ask your wife if she will favour me with her presence for a moment.’
When the whole company had assembled, Inspector Dyson turned to the farmer’s wife and said:
‘Have I your permission, madam, to invite these gentlemen to be seated?’
Anticipating her consent, he drew a chair to the head of the table, seated himself on it as though it were the veritable woolsack, and motioned the others present to sit down.
‘Mrs Thorogood and gentlemen,’ he said portentously, ‘we live in gravely critical times, and I feel it my duty to give you a partial insight into the inner meaning of the events of the evening. In the first place, I must ask you all to take a strict pledge of secrecy.’
Murmurs of assent came from all present.
‘Next, I must make sure that you are all of strictly British nationality and descent.’
More murmurs of assent.
‘You will doubtless be surprised,’ continued the police official, clearing his throat, ‘to learn that the gentleman who is lying upstairs at death’s door is no less a person than Chief Inspector Candlish of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, who has recently been making an important investigation in this neighbourhood. Now I surmise that the Chief Inspector must have provoked the enmity and revenge of some of those who are all the time engaging in seditious plots and conspiracies against this great Empire. I hope that I shall not be divulging too deep a secret when I tell you that there is at the present time an abominable combination of Bolsheviks and Sinn Feiners with the Kaiser, pledged to bring our country to ruin. Gentlemen, I think my esteemed colleague must have come across some offshoot of this intrigue here in Hillborough, and the villains have punished his attempt to thwart their plans by trying to murder him.
‘It will be my duty to visit London tomorrow morning to report what has occurred to the Chief Commissioner of Police; in the meantime you will say nothing, and, please Heaven, by our humble instrumentality the throne and constitution of our beloved native land will be saved from the dangers that threaten them.’
At the conclusion of this ponderous harangue, the inspector again cleared his throat, and looked as though he expected someone to move a vote of thanks.
‘Good gracious me, what are we coming to?’ said Mrs Thorogood.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said her husband and son in chorus.
Doctor Jennings said nothing, but looked incredulous.
CHAPTER IX
‘Let Mammon’s votaries say what they will,
A bounder gilded is a bounder still.’
Lyra Satirica
THE morning after the events just recorded, Doris Lyttleton was sitting in the library writing some letters. The anxiety and strain of the past few weeks was beginning to tell on her appearance. Her cheeks were hollower and whiter than they ought to have been, and her eyes were framed in big dark semicircles.
Had she been certain that her father was dead, and that she had lost him altogether, she would have mourned him sincerely, missed his kindly presence and suffered all the sting and sorrow of irrevocable parting; but the wound would, as it were, have been open and healthy. Time, the great healer, would have softened her distress, and every day that elapsed would have modified the bitterness of her grief. Her first feelings of despair and hopeless regret would have been gradually transmuted into gracious and kindly memories, tinged with sadness, it is true, but bearable and even pleasant. But while her father’s fate was wrapped in obscurity day followed day bringing not assuagement but a fresh burden of doubt and anxiety, which caused the wound in her mind to fester and rankle with ever renewed virulence.
Basil had been getting very anxious about her, and was fearful of a nervous breakdown if something were not done to relieve the strain. He devoted all his spare time to the endeavour to distract her mind from brooding over her father’s fate. The lovers met every morning at Long Vistas or somewhere in town, had lunch together, and either strolled in the Park or sat in a café (on wet days) until Basil was obliged to make his way to the Daily Gazette office.
On the present occasion Doris was expecting him to turn up about eleven-thirty with his American friend, Burton James, whom he wished to introduce to her.
When, therefore, a few minutes after eleven, she heard a loud double knock at the front door, she thought it must be Basil and his friend a little before their time. She was accordingly surprised and disappointed when a maid entered the room and announced ‘Mr Horace Lyttleton and Mr Myles Lyttleton. I have shown them into the drawing-room, miss.’
Knowing something of her father’s opinion of his cousin, Doris’s first impulse was to refuse to see him; but reflecting that he might have something important to say, might even bring some news of her parent, she thought better of it, and entered the drawing-room.
Horace Lyttleton and his son sprang to their feet, the former looking, as usual, as though he aimed at appearing the incarnation of wealth, benevolence, and good taste, but had missed the mark by a little; the latter, as spic and span as a Bond Street tailor could make him.
‘My dear child,’ said Horace, advancing with both hands stretched out, ‘my poor dear child, your cousin Myles and I have been thinking so much about you. We hesitated for some time lest we should intrude too suddenly on the sacred privacy of your sorrow, but our great anxiety about your dear father and our sympathy with you would not let us stay away any longer. So here we are.’
Doris was so intent on avoiding the fatherly kiss that her relative seemed bent on bestowing, that she scarcely heard what he said, but turned with some relief to face the greeting of his son, which promised to be less effusive.
‘I am your cousin Myles Lyttleton, Doris,’ said he, as he shook her hand. ‘I have known about you ever since you were born, and have longed to make your acquaintance. I hope we shall be great friends.’
‘It is very kind of you to call, but I am afraid I am scarcely fit to see anyone just now; when father returns, as I hope he will soon, he will, I am sure, be glad to welcome you here.’
This mild hint was quite lost on the visitors, who looked as though they had taken root in their chairs.
‘My dear child,’ said Horace, ‘that is just why we have come, it was so dreadful to think of you left here all alone in your trouble, and we felt that it would be a great comfort to you to have the support of your nearest, and, I hope I may say, dearest, relations.’
At this point the door opened and the maid announced:
‘Mr Dawson and Mr James.’
Horace and Myles glared at the new arrivals as though they were intruders. Doris rose to greet them, and Basil presented his friend.
‘It is indeed nice of you to have come to see me, Mr James, I have heard so much about you from Basil.’
‘I am greatly honoured, Miss Lyttleton, and I need not say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance.’
‘Cousin Horace and cousin Myles,’ said Doris, ‘I want to introduce you to Mr Dawson, my fiancé, and to Mr Burton James.’
The four men exchanged greetings—stiffly on the part of the first-comers, cordially on the part of the late arrivals.
‘Mr Dawson and his friend will, I am sure, appreciate the fact that this is a family gathering, and see the propriety of renewing their call at a later and more suitable occasion,’ said Horace in his best heavy father manner.
‘Mr Dawson and his friend will do nothing of the sort, I hope,’ said Doris quickly; ‘they have come here this morning to lunch at my invitation, Cousin Horace, and I should not dream of allowing them to go away at once. Besides, if this were a family gathering who would have a better right to be present than the man to whom I am engaged?’
‘But we were going to talk about your poor dear father,’ said Horace.
‘Mr Dawson is entirely in my confidence,’ was the reply, ‘and I am sure Mr James will excuse us. Do I understand that you have anything to tell me about my father, Cousin Horace?’
‘Only to say, my dear child, that as his partner and relative I wish to place my services and my son’s at your disposal. I am sure it would be the greatest comfort to your father to know that you were in close touch with those who are competent by their business experience and close blood relationship, to give you sound advice and effective support.’
‘Thank you, Cousin Horace, I am sure you are very kind, but I am quite capable of looking after my own affairs.’
‘Blood is thicker than water,’ said Horace sententiously.
Burton James had been for some minutes looking questioningly at Myles Lyttleton, and at last said:
‘I cannot help thinking that I have had the pleasure of meeting you before; have you been in New York recently?’
Myles Lyttleton looked surprised, and half turned towards his father; then pulling himself together, replied:
‘You are mistaken, sir, I have never been in New York in my life.’ Rising and addressing Horace, he proceeded: ‘Now, father, we had better be getting back to town; I know you have an important meeting in the city at two o’clock, and things don’t seem to be propitious for the quiet family chat we were hoping to have with Doris. Good-bye, Doris, I shall look forward to seeing you again in the near future. Good-morning, gentlemen.’
Anxious, apparently, to bring an unprofitable conversation to a close, Myles was out of the room almost before he had finished speaking. His parent followed after a farewell speech to Doris that he at least intended to be affecting.
Nothing was said until the sound of the shutting front door reached the drawing-room.
‘Thank God, they’re gone,’ said Basil. ‘Excuse my strong language, Doris.’
‘I feel like using a stronger expression still, so you may consider yourself forgiven, Basil; but I am afraid that Mr James will have formed a peculiar opinion of our English family life.’
‘Not at all, Miss Lyttleton, I quite understand the position. Dawson has told me all about it. I only wish I could be of some use to you.’
‘What made you think you had seen Myles Lyttleton before, James?’ said Basil.
‘Just a passing impression: I was probably mistaken, and if Mr Myles has not been in the States, I certainly was wrong, for I have never visited Europe till now.’
‘I wonder if Myles has been in New York,’ said Basil. ‘Could it have been he that personated your father, Doris?’
‘What a mad notion, Basil! I don’t profess to like Cousin Myles or his father, but we have no reason whatever for suspecting them of having anything to do with my father’s disappearance.’
‘I shall mention the matter to Inspector Candlish, all the same,’ said Basil. ‘I admit it is very unlikely, but every possibility should be explored—in any case, Myles was not in London for some time after your father’s disappearance; he claims to have been in France, but he may have been in New York.’
‘I don’t agree with you at all, Basil: whatever motive could Myles Lyttleton have for kidnapping father?’
‘I don’t know enough about him to answer that question,’ said Basil. ‘But I am going to find out before many hours are passed.’
The conversation then drifted to more general subjects, and lunch was soon announced.
When the meal was over, Doris took her guests into a delightful little room, which she called her study, for coffee and cigarettes, in both of which she herself shared. Doris, being a woman, at once youthful and intellectual, regarded the cigarette, not from the merely material view as something to please the taste and soothe the nerves, but as a symbol of the emancipation of her sex, and therefore to be ranked with the Phrygian cap of the revolted galley slaves, which has become the badge of Liberty.
