CHAPTER XIV
THE TALE HAD TO BE TOLD
And whilst the morning papers were unfolded by millions of English men and women, and the details of the mysterious crime discussed over eggs and bacon and buttered toast, Philip de Mountford, the newly found heir presumptive to the Earldom of Radclyffe, was lying in the gloomy mortuary chamber of a London police court, whither he had been conveyed in the same cab whose four narrow walls jealously guarded the secret of the tragedy which had been enacted within their precincts.
Lord Radclyffe had been aroused at ten o'clock the previous night by representatives of the police, who came to break the news to him. It was not late, and the old man was not yet in bed. He had opened the front door of his house himself, his servants—he explained curtly—were spending their evening more agreeably elsewhere.
The house—even to the police officers—appeared lonely and gloomy in the extreme, and the figure of the old man, who should have been surrounded by every luxury that rank and wealth can give, looked singularly pathetic as he stood in his own door-way, evidently unprotected and uncared for, and suspiciously demanding what his late visitors' business might be.
Very reluctantly on hearing the latter's status he consented to admit them. He did not at first appear to suspect that anything wrong might have happened, or that anything untoward could occasion this nocturnal visit: in fact, he seemed unconscious of the lateness of the hour.
He walked straight into the library, where he had obviously been sitting, for an arm-chair was drawn to the fire, a reading lamp was lighted on the table, and papers and magazines lay scattered about.
The police officer in plain clothes, who stood with his subordinate, somewhat undecided, hardly knew how to begin. It was a hard task to break such awful news to this lonely old man.
At last it was done; the word "accident" and "your nephew" were blurted out by the man in command. But hardly were these out of his lips than Lord Radclyffe—livid and trembling—had jumped to his feet.
"Luke!" he contrived to exclaim, and his voice was almost choked, his lips and hands trembled, beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. "Something has happened to Luke."
"No, no, my lord! that's not the name—Philip was on the card and on the letters—Philip de Mountford—that was, I think, the poor gentleman's name."
"And an accident has happened to Mr. Philip de Mountford?"
The voice was quite different now. No longer choked with anxiety, calm and as if mildly interested in passing events. It was obvious even to the strangers present that one nephew was of far greater moment than the other.
"I am afraid, my lord, that it's worse than an accident——"
The officer paused a moment, satisfied that he was doing all that was necessary and possible to mitigate the suddenness of the blow.
"It's foul play," he said at last; "that's what it was."
"Foul play? What do you mean by that?"
"Mr. Philip de Mountford has been murdered, my lord—his body now lies at the police station—would you wish him conveyed home at once, my lord—or wait until after the inquest?"
There was silence in the room for a moment or two, while the old-fashioned clock ticked stolidly on. At the awful announcement, which indeed might have felled a younger and more vigorous man, Lord Radclyffe had not moved. He was still standing, his hand resting on the table beside the piled up newspapers. The light of the lamp veiled by a red shade illumined the transparent delicacy of the high-bred hand, the smooth black surface of the coat, and the glimmering whiteness of the shirt front with its single pearl stud. The face itself was in shadow, and thus the police officer saw little or nothing of that inward struggle for self-mastery which was being put so severely to the test.
Lord Radclyffe, face to face with the awful event, strove by every power at his command to remain dignified and impassive. The lessons taught by generations of ancestors had to bear fruit now, when a representative of the ancient name stood confronting the greatest crisis that one of his kind has ever had to face—the brutal, vulgar fact of a common murder. The realities of a sordid life brought within the four walls of a solemn, aristocratic old house.
For a moment before he spoke again the old man looked round about him, the tall mahogany bookcases filled with silent friends, the busts of Dryden and of Milton, the globes in their mahogany casings: all heirlooms from the generations of de Mountfords who had gone before.
It seemed as if the present bearer of the historic name called all these mute things to witness this present degradation. A crime had smirched the family escutcheon, for to some minds—those who dwell on empyrean heights to which the matter-of-fact sordidness of every-day life never reaches—to those minds the victim is almost as horrible as the assassin.
Lord Radclyffe however fought his own battle silently. Not with one tremor or one gasp would he let the two men see what he felt. Conventionality wielded her iron rod in this shabby old library, just as she had done in the ball room of the Danish Legation, and whilst not two hundred yards away Louisa Harris sang Guy d'Hardelot's songs and smilingly received praise and thanks for her perfect performance, so here the old man never flinched.
He gave to his nerves the word of command, and as soon as he had forced them to obey, he looked straight at the police officer and said quite calmly:
"Please tell me all that I ought to know."
He sat in his high-backed chair, curtly bidding the two men to sit down; he made no attempt to shade his face and eyes; once the battle fought and won he had nothing more to hide: his own face, rigid and still, his firm mouth, and smooth brow were mask enough to conceal the feelings within.
The officer gave the details at full length: he told Lord Radclyffe all that was known of the mysterious crime. The old man listened in silence until the man had finished speaking, then he asked a few questions:
"You have a clue of course?"
"I think so, my lord," replied the officer guardedly.
"Can I help in any way?"
"Any information, my lord, that you think might help us would of course be gladly welcomed."
"The man who hailed the cab in Shaftesbury Avenue—what was he like? I could help you if I knew."
"I'll have his description properly written out, my lord, and bring it you in the morning."
"Can't you tell me now? Every moment lost is irretrievable in cases like these."
"I am afraid, my lord, that I cannot tell you definitely now. There's a dense fog outside—and——"
"The chauffeur's descriptions are vague," interposed Lord Radclyffe with a sneer, "the eternal excuses for incompetence."
"My lord!" protested the man.
"All right! all right! No offence meant I assure you. You must pardon an old man's irritability—the news you have brought me does not make for evenness of temper. I rely on your department to clear this matter up with the least possible scandal."
"I am afraid that scandal is inevitable," retorted the officer dryly, for he still felt sore at Lord Radclyffe's ill-tempered thrust. "We shall have to rake up a great deal of what might be unpleasant to many parties."
"Why should it be unpleasant?"
"We shall have to know something of the murdered man's past, of his associates before—before he was able to establish his claim to your lordship's consideration."
"I have no doubt that the late Philip de Mountford had many undesirable associates in the past," remarked Lord Radclyffe curtly.
The silence which followed was tantamount to a dismissal. The officer rose to go. He felt nettled at the old man's obvious sneers: they had been like a cold douche over his enthusiasm, for the case had already drifted into his hands and it promised to be the most interesting and most sensational criminal case of modern times.
"You have not," he said before taking his leave, "told me, my lord, what you wish done about the body."
"Surely," replied Lord Radclyffe querulously, "it is too late now to make any arrangements. What is the time?"
"Half past ten, my lord."
"Surely to-morrow morning we can discuss all that."
"Just as you wish, of course."
"To-morrow morning—as early as you like. My servants will be at home then—the house will be ready—and I can make arrangements—or else we'll wait, as you say, until after the inquest."
The sound of a bell broke the silence that ensued.
"You must excuse me," said his lordship dryly, "my servants are out, and there's some one at the front door."
"I can hear footsteps below stairs, my lord," remarked the officer.
"Ah! I believe you're right. Those two blackguards must have come home and I didn't know it. They do pretty much as they like."
Shuffling, uncertain footsteps were heard across the hall. The officer said hurriedly:
"One more thing, my lord—you will pardon me asking but—you had not thought of—er—offering a reward?"
"What for?"
"The apprehension of the murderer, or useful information that would lead to conviction."
"Oh! Ah, yes; a reward by all means! Of course I'll give a reward to stimulate incompetence, eh?"
"What will your lordship make it?" asked the officer, determined this time to show no resentment.
"Two hundred—five hundred—have what you like—so long as you get that brute."
"Five hundred, my lord, would stimulate us all."
"Very well," said Lord Radclyffe briefly. "Good evening."
"Good evening, my lord. And to-morrow morning we'll be ready for the body to be taken away, if you wish it. But the inquest will be the day after, so perhaps it might be best to wait until then. At the coroner's court, Victoria, my lord—South Kensington, you know—everything will be all right. Good evening, my lord."
The two men took their leave, glad enough to have done with the unpleasant interview.
As they walked to the door that gave from the library on the hall it was opened from the outside, and a seedy-looking man, dressed in shabby evening clothes that bore many traces of past libations, walked unceremoniously midway into the room.
"Will you see Mr. Luke de Mountford?" he muttered addressing his master.
"Certainly not," replied his lordship. "It's much too late. Ask Mr. Luke to call again to-morrow. And you and your wife can go to bed."