Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
“A fair-haired girl!” I exclaimed, quickly interested.
“Yes; she described her as wearin’ a black velvet band on her hair.”
“And what did you do?” I asked anxiously.
“Why, nothing. I’ve ’eard too many o’ them kind o’ tales before.”
“Yes,” I said reflectively. “Of course all kinds of legends and rumours must naturally spring up around a house so long closed.”
“Of course. It’s all in people’s imagination. I suppose they’ll say next that a murder’s been committed in the place!” he laughed.
“I suppose so,” I said, and then, putting a shilling in his hand, wished him good-night, and passed along.
Jack and the idiot had gone, but, knowing the direction they had taken – for the youth was, no doubt, on his way home – I was not long before I caught up my friend, and then together we retraced our steps towards the Bayswater Road, in search of a taxi.
I could not forget that curious statement that a girl’s face had been seen at the drawing-room window – a fair-headed girl with a band of black velvet in her hair.
Could it have been Sylvia Pennington?
It was past three o’clock in the morning before I retraced my steps to Wilton Street. We were unable to find a cab, therefore we walked down Park Lane together.
On the way Jack had pressed me to tell him the reason of my visit to that weird house and the circumstances in which my life had been attempted. For the present, however, I refused to satisfy his curiosity. I promised him I would tell him the whole facts of the case some day.
“But why are you at home now?” he asked. “I can’t really make you out lately, Owen. You told me you hated London, and preferred life on the Continent, yet here you are, back again, and quite settled down in town!”
“Well, a fellow must come here for the London season sometimes,” I said. “I feel that I’ve been away far too long, and am a bit out of touch with things. Why, my tailor hardly knew me, and the hall-porter at White’s had to look twice before he realized who I was.”
“But there’s some attraction which has brought you to London,” he declared. “I’m sure there is!”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him how cleverly the two scoundrels had used his name wherewith to entrap me on the previous night. But I refrained. Instead, I asked —
“Have you ever met two men named Reckitt and Forbes, Jack?”
“Not to my knowledge,” was his prompt reply. “Who are they? What are they like?”
I gave him a minute description of both, but he apparently did not recognize them.
“I suppose you’ve never met a fellow called Pennington – eh? A stoutish, dark-haired man with a baldish head and a reddish face?”
“Well,” he replied thoughtfully, “I’ve met a good many men who might answer to that description. What is he?”
“I don’t exactly know. I’ve met him on the Continent.”
“And I suppose some people one meets at Continental hotels are undesirables, aren’t they?” he said.
I nodded in the affirmative.
Then I asked —
“You’ve never known a person named Shuttleworth – Edmund Shuttleworth? Lives at a little village close to Andover.”
“Shuttleworth!” he echoed, looking straight into my face. “What do you know of Edmund Shuttleworth?” he asked quickly.
“Very little. Do you know him?”
“Er – well – no, not exactly,” was his faltering reply, and I saw in his slight hesitation an intention to conceal the actual knowledge which he possessed. “I’ve heard of him – through a friend of mine – a lady friend.”
“A lady! Who’s she?” I inquired quickly.
“Well,” he laughed a trifle uneasily, “the fact is, old chap, perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to tell the story. You understand?”
I was silent. What did he mean? In a second the allegation made by that pair of scoundrels recurred to me. They had declared that Sylvia had been in a house opposite, and that my friend had fallen in love with her.
Yet he had denied acquaintanceship with Pennington!
No doubt the assassins had lied to me, yet my suspicions had been aroused. Jack had admitted his acquaintance with the thin-faced village rector – he knew of him through a woman. Was that woman Sylvia herself?
From his manner and the great curiosity he evinced, I felt assured that he had never known of Althorp House before. Reckitt and Forbes had uttered lies when they had shown me that photograph, and told me that she was beloved by my best friend. It had been done to increase my anger and chagrin. Yet might there not, after all, have been some foundation in truth in what they had said? The suggestion gripped my senses.
Again I asked him to tell me the lady’s name.
But, quite contrary to his usual habit of confiding in me all his most private affairs, he steadfastly refused.
“No, my dear old chap,” he replied, “I really can’t tell you that. Please excuse me, but it is a matter I would rather not discuss.”
So at the corner of Piccadilly we parted, for it was now broad daylight, and while he returned to his rooms, I walked down Grosvenor Place to Wilton Street, more than ever puzzled and confounded.
Was I a fool, that I loved Sylvia Pennington with such an all-absorbing passion?
It was strangely true, as Shuttleworth had declared, the grave lay as a gulf between us.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WORD OF A WOMAN
A week went by – a week of keen anxiety and apprehension.
Jack had spoken the truth when he had declared that it was my duty to go to Scotland Yard and reveal what I had discovered regarding that dark house in Bayswater.
Yet somehow I felt that any such action on my part must necessarily reflect upon my fair-haired divinity, that sweet, soft-spoken girl who had warned me, and who, moreover, was my affinity.
Had you found yourself in such a position, how would you have acted?
Remember that, notwithstanding the veil of mystery which overspread Sylvia Pennington, I loved her, and tried to conceal the truth from myself a hundred times, but it was impossible. She had warned me, and I, unfortunately, had not heeded. I had fallen into a trap, and without a doubt it had been she who had entered and rescued me from a fate most horrible to contemplate.
I shuddered when I lived that hour of terror over again. I longed once more to see that pale, sweet, wistful face which was now ever in my dreams. Had not Shuttleworth told me that the grave lay between my love and myself? And he had spoken the truth!
Jack met me at the club daily, but he only once referred to our midnight search and the gruesome discovery in the neglected garden.
Frequently it crossed my mind that Mad Harry might have watched there unseen, and witnessed strange things. How many men reported to the police as missing had been interred in that private burying-ground of the assassins! I dreaded to think of it.
In vain I waited for Mr. Shuttleworth to call again. He had inquired if I were at home, and, finding me absent, had gone away.
I therefore, a week later, made it an excuse to run down to Andover and see him, hoping to obtain from him some further information regarding Sylvia.
The afternoon was bright and warm, and the country looked its best, with the scent of new-mown hay in the air, and flowers everywhere, as I descended from the station fly and walked up the rectory garden to the house.
The maid admitted me to the study, saying that Mr. Shuttleworth was only “down the paddock,” and would be back in a few minutes. And as I seated myself in the big, comfortable arm-chair, I saw, straight before me, in its frame the smiling face of the mysterious woman I loved.
Through the open French windows came the warm sunlight, the song of the birds, and the drowsy hum of the insects. The lawn was marked for tennis, and beyond lay the paddock and the dark forest-border.
I had remained there some few minutes, when suddenly I heard a quick footstep in the hall outside; then, next moment, the door was opened, and there, upon the threshold, stood Sylvia herself.
“You!” she gasped, starting back. “I – I didn’t know you were here!” she stammered in confusion.
She was evidently a guest there, and was about to pass through the study into the garden. Charming in a soft white ninon gown and a big white hat, she held a tennis-racket in her hand, presenting a pretty picture framed by the dark doorway.
“Sylvia!” I cried, springing forward to her in joy, and catching her small white trembling hand in mine. “Fancy you – here!”
She held her breath, suffering me to lead her into the room and to close the door.
“I had no idea you were here,” I said. “I – lost you the other day in Regent Street – I – ”
She made a quick gesture, as though she desired me to refrain from referring to that incident. I saw that her cheeks were deadly pale, and that in her face was an expression of utter confusion.
“This meeting,” she said slowly in a low voice, “is certainly an unexpected one. Mr. Shuttleworth doesn’t know you are here, does he?”
“No,” I replied. “He’s down in the paddock, I believe.”
“He has been called out suddenly,” she said. “He’s driven over to Clatford with Mrs. Shuttleworth.”
“And you are here alone?” I exclaimed quickly.
“No. There’s another guest – Elsie Durnford,” she answered. “But,” she added, her self-possession at once returning, “but why are you here, Mr. Biddulph?”
“I wanted to see Mr. Shuttleworth. Being a friend of yours, I believed that he would know where you were. But, thank Heaven, I have found you at last. Now,” I said, smiling as I looked straight into her fathomless eyes, “tell me the truth, Miss Pennington. I did not lose you the other morning – on the contrary, you lost me – didn’t you?”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she gave vent to a nervous little laugh.
“Well,” she answered, after a moment’s hesitation, “to tell the truth, I did. I had reasons – important ones.”
“I was de trop– eh?”
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, and smiled reproachfully.
“But why?” I asked. “When I found you, it was under very curious circumstances. A man – a thief – had just cashed a cheque of mine for a thousand pounds, and made off with the proceeds – and – ”
“Ah! please do not refer to it, Mr. Biddulph!” she exclaimed quickly, laying her slim fingers upon my arm. “Let us speak of something else – anything but that.”
“I have no wish to reproach you, Miss Pennington,” I hastened to assure her. “The past is to me of the past. That man has a thousand pounds of mine, and he’s welcome to it, so long as – ” and I hesitated.
“So long as what?” she asked in a voice of trepidation.
“So long as you are alive and well,” I replied in slow, meaning tones, my gaze fixed immovably on hers. “In Gardone you expressed fear for your own safety, but so long as you are still safe I have no care as to what has happened to myself.”
“But – ”
“I know,” I went on, “the ingenious attempt upon my life of which you warned me has been made by those two scoundrels, and I have narrowly escaped. To you, Miss Pennington, I owe my life.”
She started, and lowered her eyes. Apparently she could not face me. The hand I held trembled within my grasp, and I saw that her white lips quivered.
For a few seconds a silence fell between us. Then slowly she raised her eyes to mine again, and said —
“Mr. Biddulph, this is an exceedingly painful subject to me. May we not drop it? Will you not forget it – if you really are my friend?”
“To secure your further friendship, I will do anything you wish!” I declared. “You have already proved yourself my friend by rescuing me from death,” I added.
“How do you know that?” she asked quickly.
“Because you were alone with me in that house of death in Bayswater. It was you who killed the hideous reptile and who severed the bonds which held me. They intended that I should die. My grave had already been prepared. Cannot you tell me the motive of that dastardly attack?” I begged of her.
“Alas! I cannot,” she said. “I warned you when at Gardone that I knew what was intended, but of the true motive I was, and am still, entirely ignorant. Their motives are always hidden ones.”
“They endeavoured to get from me another thousand pounds,” I exclaimed.
“It is well that you did not give it to them. The result would have been just the same. They intended that you should die, fearing lest you should inform the police.”
“And you were outside the bank with Forbes when he cashed my cheque!” I remarked in slow tones.
“I know,” she answered hoarsely. “I know that you must believe me to be their associate, perhaps their accomplice. Ah! well. Judge me, Mr. Biddulph, as you will. I have no defence. Only recollect that I warned you to go into hiding – to efface yourself – and you would not heed. You believed that I only spoke wildly – perhaps that I was merely an hysterical girl, making all sorts of unfounded assertions.”
“I believed, nay, I knew, Miss Pennington, that you were my friend. You admitted in Gardone that you were friendless, and I offered you the friendship of one who, I hope, is an honest man.”
“Ah! thank you!” she cried, taking my hand warmly in hers. “You have been so very generous, Mr. Biddulph, that I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is true an attempt was made upon you, but you fortunately escaped, even though they secured a thousand pounds of your money. Yet, had you taken my advice and disappeared, they would soon have given up the chase.”
“Tell me,” I urged in deep earnestness, “others have been entrapped in that dark house – have they not? That mechanical chair – that devilish invention – was not constructed for me alone.”
She did not answer, but I regarded her silence as an affirmative response.
“Your friends at least seem highly dangerous persons,” I said, smiling. “I’ve been undecided, since discovering that my grave was already prepared, whether to go to Scotland Yard and reveal the whole game.”
“No!” she cried in quick apprehension. “No, don’t do that. It could serve no end, and would only implicate certain innocent persons – myself included.”
“But how could you be implicated?”
“Was I not at the bank when the cheque was cashed?”
“Yes. Why were you there?” I asked.
But she only excused herself from replying to my question.
“Ah!” she cried wildly a moment later, clutching my arm convulsively, “you do not know my horrible position – you cannot dream what I have suffered, or how much I have sacrificed.”
I saw that she was now terribly in earnest, and, by the quick rising and falling of the lace upon her bodice, I knew that she was stirred by a great emotion. She had refused to allow me to stand her friend because she feared what the result might be. And yet, had she not rescued me from the serpent’s fang?
“Sylvia,” I cried, “Sylvia – for I feel that I must call you by your Christian name – let us forget it all. The trap set by those blackguards was most ingenious, and in innocence I fell into it. I should have lost my life – except for you. You were present in that house of death. They told me you were there – they showed me your picture, and, to add to my horror, said that you, their betrayer, were to share the same fate as myself.”
“Yes, yes, I know!” she cried, starting. “Oh, it was all too terrible – too terrible! How can I face you, Mr. Biddulph, after that!”
“My only desire is to forget it all, Sylvia,” was my low and quiet response. “It was all my fault – my fault, for not heeding your warning. I never realized the evil machinations of those unknown enemies. How should I? As far as I know, I had never set eyes upon them before.”
“You would have done wiser to have gone into hiding, as I suggested,” she remarked quietly.
“Never mind,” I said cheerily. “It is all past. Let us dismiss it. There is surely no more danger – now that I am forearmed.”
“May they not fear your reprisals?” she exclaimed. “They did not intend that you should escape, remember.”
“No, they had already prepared my grave. I have seen it.”
“That grave was prepared for both of us,” she said in a calm, reflective voice.
“Then how did you escape?” I inquired, with curiosity.
“I do not know. I can only guess.”
“May I not know?” I asked eagerly.
“When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you,” she replied.
“Then let us dismiss the subject. It is horrible, gruesome. Look how lovely and bright the world is outside. Let us live in peace and in happiness. Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately fallen upon us.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a sigh, “you are indeed generous to me, Mr. Biddulph. But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the actual truth? Alas! I fear you would not. Instead of remaining my friend, you would hate me – just – just as I hate myself!”
“Sylvia,” I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open eyes, “I shall never hate you. On the contrary, let me confess, now and openly,” I whispered, “let me tell you that I – I love you!”
She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and rigid.
Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved and fell rapidly. She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm the rising tempest of emotion within her. Her breath came and went rapidly.
“Love me!” she echoed in a strange, hoarse tone. “Ah! no, Mr. Biddulph, no, a thousand times no! You do not know what you are saying. Recall those words – I beg of you!”
And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her eyes that she was deadly in earnest.
“Why should I recall them?” I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder. “You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my enemies. I love you, and I fear nothing – nothing!”
“Hush! Do not say that,” she protested very quietly.
“Why?”
“Because – well, because even though you have escaped, they – ” and she hesitated, her lips set as though unable to articulate the truth.
“They what?” I demanded.
“Because, Mr. Biddulph – because, alas! I know these men only too well. You have triumphed; but yours is, I fear, but a short-lived victory. They still intend that you shall die!”
“How do you know that?” I asked quickly.
“Listen,” she said hoarsely. “I will tell you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DEATH KISS
Sylvia sank into a chair, while I stood upon the hearth-rug facing her, eager to hear her explanation.
Her hands were clasped as she raised her wonderful blue eyes to mine. Yes, her beauty was perfect – more perfect than any I had ever seen in all my wandering, erratic life.
“Why do those men still intend that I shall die?” I asked. “Now that I know the truth I shall remain wary.”
“Ah, yes,” she responded. “But they will take you unawares. You do not know the devilish cunning and ingenuity of such men as they, who live upon their wits, and are utterly unscrupulous.”
“Well, what do they now intend?” I asked, much interested, for it seemed that she knew very much more than she would admit.
“You have escaped,” she said, looking straight into my face. “They naturally fear that you will tell the police.”
“I shall not do that – not at present, at least,” I replied. “I am keeping my own counsel.”
“Yes. But cannot you see that while you live you are a menace to their dastardly plans? They dare not return to that deserted house in Bayswater.”
“Where are they now?”
“Abroad, I believe. They always take care to have an outlet for escape,” she answered. “Ah! you don’t know what a formidable combination they are. They snap their fingers at the police of Europe.”
“What? Then you really admit that there have been other victims?” I exclaimed.
“I have no actual knowledge,” she declared, “only suspicions.”
“Why are you friendly with them?” I asked. “What does your father say to such acquaintances?”
“I am friendly only under compulsion,” she answered. “Ah! Mr. Biddulph, you cannot know how I hate the very sight or knowledge of those inhuman fiends. Their treatment of you is, in itself, sufficient proof of their pitiless plans.”
“Tell me this, Sylvia,” I said, after a second’s pause. “Have you any knowledge of a man – a great friend of mine – named Jack Marlowe?”
Her face changed. It became paler, and I saw she was slightly confused.
“I – well, I believe we met once,” she said. “His father lives somewhere down in Devonshire.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “What do you know of him?”
“Nothing. We met only once.”
“Where?”
“Well – our meeting was under rather curious circumstances. He is your friend, therefore please pardon me if I do not reply to your question,” was her vague response.
“Then what do you anticipate from those men, Reckitt and Forbes?” I asked.
“Only evil – distinct evil,” she replied. “They will return, and strike when you least expect attack.”
“But if I do not go to the police, why should they fear me? They are quite welcome to the money they have stolen – so long as they allow me peace in the future.”
“Which I fear they will not do,” replied the girl, shaking her head.
“You speak very apprehensively,” I said. “What is there really to fear? Perhaps it would be best if I went to the police at once. They would then dig over that neglected garden and reveal its secrets.”
“No!” she cried again, starting wildly from her chair as though in sudden terror. “I beg of you not to do that, Mr. Biddulph. It would serve no purpose, and only create a great sensation. But the culprits would never be brought to justice. They are far too clever, and their conspiracies are too far-reaching. No, remain patient. Take the greatest care of your own personal safety – and you may yet be able to combat your enemies with their own weapons.”
“I shall be able, Sylvia – providing that you assist me,” I said.
She held her breath, and remained silent. She evidently feared them.
I tried to obtain from her some details of the occurrences of that night of horror, but she refused to satisfy my curiosity. Apparently she feared to incriminate herself. Could it be possible that she had only learnt at the last moment that it was I who was embraced in the next room by that fatal chair!
Yet it was all so puzzling, so remarkable. Surely a girl with such a pure, open, innocent face could not be the accomplice of dastardly criminals! She was their friend. That much she had admitted to me. But her friendship with them was made under compulsion. She urged me not to go to the police. Why?
Did she fear that she herself would be implicated in a series of dark and terrible crimes?
“Where is your father?” I inquired presently.
“In Scotland,” was her prompt reply. “I heard from him at the Caledonian Hotel, at Edinburgh, last Friday. I am staying here with Mr. Shuttleworth until his return.”
Was it not strange that she should be guest of a quiet-mannered country parson, if she were actually the accomplice of a pair of criminals! I felt convinced that Shuttleworth knew the truth – that he could reveal a very remarkable story – if he only would.
“Your father is a friend of Mr. Shuttleworth – eh?” I asked.
She nodded in the affirmative. Then she stood with her gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the sunlit lawn outside.
Mystery was written upon her fair countenance. She held a dread secret which she was determined not to reveal. She knew of those awful crimes committed in that dark house in Bayswater, but her intention seemed to be to shield at all hazards her dangerous “friends.”
“Sylvia,” I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, “why cannot you be open and frank with me?” She allowed her hand to lie soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond as though her thoughts were far away. “I love you,” I whispered. “Cannot you see how you puzzle me? – for you seem to be my friend at one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies.”
“I have told you that you must never love me, Mr. Biddulph,” was her low reply, as she withdrew her hand slowly, but very firmly.
“Ah! no,” I cried. “Do not take offence at my words. I’m aware that I’m a hopeless blunderer in love. All I know, Sylvia, is that my only thought is of you. And I – I’ve wondered whether you, on your part, can ever entertain a spark of affection for me?”
