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‘Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love affairs.’
‘It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole story.’
‘If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to have another drink.’
His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.
‘It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a dago there whose life I had saved–’
‘If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled “Lives I have Saved”. This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.’
‘Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the dago out of the river. Like all dagos, he couldn’t swim.’
‘Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?’
‘Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro, though.’
Anthony nodded indifferently.
‘Any name’s good enough for a dago,’ he remarked. ‘Get on with the good work, James.’
‘Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon about a secret–a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin packet into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week afterwards that I opened the packet. Then I was curious, I must confess. I shouldn’t have thought that Dutch Pedro would have had the sense to know a gold mine when he saw it–but there’s no accounting for luck–’
‘And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitterpat as always,’ interrupted Anthony.
‘I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I dare say it may have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it was? A woman’s letters–yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at that. The skunk had been blackmailing her–and he had the impudence to pass on his dirty bag of tricks to me.’
‘I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to you that dagos will be dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life, he bequeathed to you a profitable source of raising money–your high-minded British ideals did not enter his horizon.’
‘Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what I thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that poor dame, not knowing they’d been destroyed, and always living in a quake and a dread lest that dago should turn up again one day.’
‘You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,’ observed Anthony, lighting a cigarette. ‘I admit that the case presented more difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them to her by post?’
‘Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the letters. There was a kind of address on one–just one word. “Chimneys”.’
Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.
‘Chimneys?’ he said. ‘That’s rather extraordinary.’
‘Why, do you know it?’
‘It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place where kings and queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and diplome.’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England instead of me. You know all these things,’ said Jimmy simply. ‘A josser like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of bloomers. But someone like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow–’
‘Only one of them,’ said Anthony modestly.
‘Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you say? Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she seemed to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by mistake. Where would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead–the letters looked as though they’d been written some time. As I figured it out, the only thing was for someone to take them to England and put them into her own hands.’
Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend, clapped him affectionately on the back.
‘You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘And the backwoods of Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as you would.’
‘You’ll take it on, then?’
‘Of course.’
McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer, took out a bundle of letters and threw them on the table.
‘Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.’
‘Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.’
‘Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if there’s any clue as to where she really hangs out.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they had hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.
‘Poor little devil,’ he remarked. ‘She was scared stiff.’
Jimmy nodded.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this unknown lady, James?’
Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.
‘It’s a pretty name,’ he said apologetically. ‘Virginia Revel.’
Chapter 3
Anxiety in High Places
‘Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so,’ said Lord Caterham.
He had used the same words three times already, each time in the hope that they would end the interview and permit him to escape. He disliked very much being forced to stand on the steps of the exclusive London club to which he belonged and listen to the interminable eloquence of the Hon George Lomax.
Clement Edward Alistair Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham, was a small gentleman, shabbily dressed, and entirely unlike the popular conception of a marquis. He had faded blue eyes, a thin melancholy nose, and a vague but courteous manner.
The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his brother, the eighth marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth, history had been made and unmade at informal weekend parties at Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England–or indeed in Europe–who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.
That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the assumption that Chimneys was a national possession rather than a private country house. There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics–unless it was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to embonpoint, with a red face and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own importance.
‘You see the point, Caterham? We can’t–we simply can’t afford a scandal of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.’
‘It always is,’ said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.
‘My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!’
‘Oh, quite so, quite so,’ said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.
‘One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.’
‘I was thinking of going abroad this week,’ said Lord Caterham.
‘Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.’
‘My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,’ said Lord Caterham, longingly eyeing a taxi that was crawling past.
He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was engaged in serious conversation–doubtless the result of long experience. In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.
‘My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis, such as is fast approaching–’
Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.
‘All right,’ he said hastily, ‘I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.’
‘My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.’
‘Delighted,’ said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. ‘Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.’
‘The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.’
Lord Caterham looked depressed again.
‘That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein–’
‘Who?’
‘Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.’
‘The all-British syndicate?
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Nothing–nothing–I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.’
‘Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders–just to give the thing a bona fide appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that–young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.’
‘Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.’
‘I wonder now.’ Lomax seemed struck by an idea. ‘You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?’
‘You’ve been speaking about so many things.’
‘No, no, I mean this unfortunate contretemps’–he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper–‘the memoirs–Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.’
‘I think you’re wrong about that,’ said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. ‘People like scandal. Damn it all, I read reminiscences myself–and enjoy ’em too.’
‘The point is not whether people will read them or not–they’ll read them fast enough–but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything–everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the monarchy, and are prepared to offer the crown to Prince Michael, who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government–’
‘And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr Ikey Hermanstein and Co in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne–’
‘Caterham, Caterham,’ implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. ‘Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.’
‘And the point is,’ continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, ‘that some of Stylptitch’s reminiscences may upset the apple-cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the bloodsucking capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing–eh?’
Lomax nodded.
‘And there might be worse still,’ he breathed. ‘Suppose–only suppose that some reference should be made to–to that unfortunate disappearance–you know what I mean.’
Lord Caterham stared at him.
‘No, I don’t. What disappearance?’
‘You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.’
‘You interest me enormously,’ said Lord Caterham. ‘Who or what disappeared?’
Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The latter withdrew it hastily.
‘For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.’
‘You heard what I said?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Lord Caterham reluctantly. ‘I remember now hearing something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did it. It was never recovered?’
‘Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost discretion. No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But Stylptitch was there at the time. He knew something. Not all, but something. We were at loggerheads with him once or twice over the Turkish question. Suppose that in sheer malice he has set the whole thing down for the world to read. Think of the scandal–of the far-reaching results. Everyone would say–why was it hushed up?’
‘Of course they would,’ said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.
Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.
‘I must keep calm,’ he murmured. ‘I must keep calm. But I ask you this, my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the manuscript to London in this roundabout way?’
‘It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?’
‘Absolutely. We–er–had our agents in Paris. The memoirs were conveyed away secretly some weeks before his death.’
