Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

Suddenly she objected to some words which he uttered, objected strongly, with rapid interruption and quick protest.

But he laid his hand quietly upon her arm, and seemed to convince her of the truth or justice of his words.

Then, as she turned, she recognized me, and I raised my hat politely in passing.

Shuttleworth’s eyes met mine, and he stared at me. But I passed on, in pretence that I had not recognized him as the watcher of the previous night.

I idled about the terrace and the little landing-stage till noon, when the steamer for Riva came up from Desenzano; and Shuttleworth, taking leave of Sylvia, boarded the little craft with his two kit-bags, and waved her farewell as the vessel drew away, making a wide wake upon the glassy surface of the deep blue waters.

When he had gone, I crossed to her and spoke. She looked inexpressibly charming in her white cotton gown and neat straw sailor hat with black velvet band. There was nothing ostentatious about her dress, but it was always well cut and fitted her to perfection. She possessed a style and elegance all her own.

“Ah! Mr. Biddulph!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “Why have you not heeded my words last night? Why have you not left? Go! – go, before it is too late!” she urged, looking straight into my face with those wonderful eyes of hers.

“But I don’t understand you, Miss Pennington,” I replied. “Why should I leave here? What danger threatens me?”

“A grave one – a very grave one,” she said in a low, hoarse whisper. “If you value your life you should get away from this place.”

“Who are these enemies of mine?” I demanded. “You surely should tell me, so that I can take precautions against them.”

“Your only precaution lies in flight,” she said.

“But will you not tell me what is intended? If there is a conspiracy against me, is it not your duty, as a friend, to reveal it?”

“Did I not tell you last night that I am not your friend – that our friendship is forbidden?”

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “As far as I know, I haven’t an enemy in the world. Why should I fear the unknown?”

“Ah! will you not take heed of what I have told you?” she cried in desperation. “Leave here. Return to England – hide yourself – anywhere – for a time, until the danger passes.”

“I have no fear of this mysterious danger, Miss Pennington,” I said. “If these secret enemies of mine attack me, then I am perfectly ready and able to defend myself.”

“But they will not attack openly. They will strike at a moment when you least expect it – and strike with accuracy and deadly effect.”

“Last night, after you had left me, I found a man standing in the shadow watching us,” I said. “He was the clergyman whom I saw sitting with you just now. Who is he?”

“Mr. Shuttleworth – an old friend of mine in England. An intimate friend of my father’s. To him, I owe very much. I had no idea he was here until an hour ago, when we met quite accidentally on the terrace. I haven’t seen him for a year. We once lived in his parish near Andover, in Hampshire. He was about our only friend.”

“Why did he spy upon us?”

“I had no idea that he did. It must have been only by chance,” she assured me. “From Edmund Shuttleworth you certainly have nothing to fear. He and his wife are my best friends. She is staying up at Riva, it seems, and he is on his way to join her.”

“Your father is absent,” I said abruptly.

“Yes,” she replied, with slight hesitation. “He has gone away on business. I don’t expect he will be back till to-night.”

“And how long do you remain here?”

“Who knows? Our movements are always so sudden and erratic. We may leave to-night for the other end of Europe, or we may remain here for weeks yet. Father is so uncertain always.”

“But why are you so eager that I shall leave you?” I asked, as we strolled together along the terrace. “You have admitted that you are in need of a friend, and yet you will not allow me to approach you with the open hand of friendship.”

“Because – ah! have I not already explained the reason why – why I dare not allow you to show undue friendship towards me?”

“Well, tell me frankly,” I said, “who is this secret enemy of mine?”

She was silent. In that hesitation I suspected an intention to deceive.

“Is it against your own father that you are warning me?” I exclaimed in hesitation. “You fear him, evidently, and you urge me to leave here and return to England. Why should I not remain here in defiance?”

“In some cases defiance is distinctly injudicious,” she remarked. “It is so in this. Your only safety is in escape. I can tell you no more.”

“These words of yours, Miss Pennington, are remarkably strange,” I said. “Surely our position is most curious. You are my friend, and yet you conceal the identity of my enemy.”

She only shrugged her shoulders, without any reply falling from her lips.

“Will you not take my advice and get back to England at once?” she asked very seriously, as she turned to me a few minutes later. “I have suggested this in your own interests.”

“But why should I go in fear of this unknown enemy?” I asked. “What harm have I done? Why should any one be my bitter enemy?”

“Ah, how do I know?” she cried in despair. “We all of us have enemies where we least suspect them. Sometimes the very friend we trust most implicitly reveals himself as our worst antagonist. Truly one should always pause and ponder deeply before making a friend.”

“You are perfectly right,” I remarked. “A fierce enemy is always better than a false friend. Yet I would dearly like to know what I have done to merit antagonism. Where has your father gone?”

“To Brescia, I believe – to meet his friends.”

“Who are they?”

“His business friends. I only know them very slightly; they are interested in mining properties. They meet at intervals. The last time he met them was in Stockholm a month ago.”

This struck me as curious. Why should he meet his business friends so clandestinely – why should they come at night in a car to cross-roads?

But I told her nothing of what I had witnessed. I decided to keep my knowledge to myself.

“The boat leaves at two o’clock,” she said, after a pause, her hand upon her breast as though to stay the wild beating of her heart. “Will you not take my advice and leave by that? Go to Milan, and then straight on to England,” she urged in deep earnestness, her big, wide-open eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.

“No, Miss Pennington,” I replied promptly; “the fact is, I do not feel disposed to leave here just at present. I prefer to remain – and to take the risk, whatever it may be.”

“But why?” she cried, for we were standing at the end of the terrace, and out of hearing.

“Because you are in need of a friend – because you have admitted that you, too, are in peril. Therefore I have decided to remain near you.”

“No,” she cried breathlessly. “Ah! you do not know the great risk you are running! You must go – do go, Mr. Biddulph – go, for —for my sake!”

I shook my head.

“I have no fear of myself,” I declared. “I am anxious on your behalf.”

“Have no thought of me,” she cried. “Leave, and return to England.”

“And see you no more – eh?”

“If you will leave to-day, I – I will see you in England – perhaps.”

“Perhaps!” I cried. “That is not a firm promise.”

“Then, if you really wish,” she replied in earnestness, “I will promise. I’ll promise anything. I’ll promise to see you in England – when the danger has passed, if – if disaster has not already fallen upon me,” she added in a hoarse whisper.

“But my place is here – near you,” I declared. “To fly from danger would be cowardly. I cannot leave you.”

“No,” she urged, her pale face hard and anxious. “Go, Mr. Biddulph; go and save yourself. Then, if you so desire, we shall meet again in secret – in England.”

“And that is an actual promise?” I asked, holding forth my hand.

“Yes,” she answered, taking it eagerly. “It is a real promise. Give me your address, and very soon I shall be in London to resume our acquaintanceship – but, remember, not our friendship. That must never be —never!”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PERIL BEYOND

My taxi pulled up before my own white-enamelled door in Wilton Street, off Belgrave Square, and, alighting, I entered with my latch-key.

I had been home about ten days – back again once more in dear, dirty old London, spending most of my time idling in White’s or Boodle’s; for in May one meets everybody in St. James’s Street, and men foregather in the club smoking-room from the four ends of the earth.

The house in Wilton Street was a small bijou place which my father had occupied as a pied-à-terre in town, he being a widower. He had been a man of artistic tastes, and the house, though small, was furnished lightly and brightly in the modern style. At Carrington he always declared there was enough of the heaviness of the antique. Here, in the dulness of London, he preferred light decorations and modern art in furnishing.

Through the rather narrow carpeted hall I passed into the study which lay behind the dining-room, a small, cosy apartment – the acme of comfort. I, as a bachelor, hated the big terra-cotta-and-white drawing-room upstairs. When there, I made the study my own den.

I had an important letter to write, but scarcely had I seated myself at the table when old Browning, grave, grey-faced and solemn, entered, saying —

“A clergyman called to see you about three o’clock, sir. He asked if you were at home. When I replied that you were at the club, he became rather inquisitive concerning your affairs, and asked me quite a lot of questions as to where you had been lately, and who you were. I was rather annoyed, sir, and I’m afraid I may have spoken rudely. But as he would leave no card, I felt justified in refusing to answer his inquiries.”

“Quite right, Browning,” I replied. “But what kind of a man was he? Describe him.”

“Well, sir, he was rather tall, of middle age, thin-faced and drawn, as though he had seen a lot of trouble. He spoke with a pronounced drawl, and his clerical coat was somewhat shabby. I noticed, too, sir, that he wore a black leather watch-guard.”

That last sentence at once revealed my visitor’s identity. It was the Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth! But why had he returned so suddenly from Riva? And why was he making secret inquiry concerning myself?

“I think I know the gentleman, Browning,” I replied, while the faithful old fellow stood, a quaint, stout figure in a rather tight-fitting coat and grey trousers, his white-whiskered face full of mystery. I fancy Browning viewed me with considerable suspicion. In his eyes, “young Mr. Owen” had always been far too erratic. On many occasions in my boyhood days he had expressed to my father his strong disapproval of what he termed “Master Owen’s carryings-on.”

“If he should call again, tell him that I have a very great desire to renew our acquaintance. I met him abroad,” I said.

“Very well, sir,” replied my man. “But I don’t suppose he will call again, sir. I was rude to him.”

“Your rudeness was perfectly justifiable, Browning. Please refuse to answer any questions concerning me.”

“I know my duty, sir,” was the old man’s stiff reply, “and I hope I shall always perform it.”

And he retired, closing the door silently behind him.

With my elbows upon the table, I sat thinking deeply.

Had I not acted like a fool? Those strange words, and that curious promise of Sylvia Pennington sounded ever in my ears. She had succeeded in inducing me to return home by promising to meet me clandestinely in England. Why clandestinely?

Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful face – that exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes – that face which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now for life or death.

In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our separation – though I would not admit it to myself – that she was my affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me, body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the half-and-half of love.

Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called? Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my bona fides. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he interest himself in me?

I took down a big black volume from the shelf —Crockford’s Clerical Directory– and from it learned that Edmund Charles Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester. He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was £550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the country.

I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps, give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington and his daughter.

Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus I might incur Sylvia’s displeasure.

During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to express regret for the rudeness of my servant.

I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington, and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.

Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week. In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me, for I was ever thinking of Sylvia – of her only and always.

At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo, travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after driving through the little old-fashioned town out upon the dusty London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling village of Middleton, at the further end of which stood the ancient little church, and near it the comfortable old-world rectory.

Entering the gateway, I found myself in pretty, well-wooded and well-kept grounds; the house itself, long, low, and covered with trailing roses, was a typical English country rectory. Beyond that lay a paddock, while in the distance the beautiful Harewood Forest showed away upon the skyline.

Yes, Mr. Shuttleworth was at home, the neat maid told me, and I was ushered into a long old-fashioned study, the French windows of which opened out upon a well-rolled tennis-lawn.

The place smelt of tobacco-smoke. Upon the table lay a couple of well-seasoned briars, and on the wall an escutcheon bearing its owner’s college arms. Crossed above the window was a pair of rowing-sculls, and these, with a pair of fencing-foils in close proximity, told mutely of long-past athletics. It was a quiet, book-lined den, an ideal retreat for a studious man.

As my eyes travelled around the room, they suddenly fell upon a photograph in a dark leather frame, the picture of a young girl of seventeen or so, with her hair dressed low and secured by a big black bow. I started at sight of it. It was the picture of Sylvia Pennington!

I crossed to look at it more closely, but as I did so the door opened, and I found myself face to face with the rector of Middleton.

He halted as he recognized me – halted for just a second in hesitation; then, putting out his hand, he welcomed me, saying in his habitual drawl —

“Mr. Biddulph, I believe?” and invited me to be seated.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, with a smile, “I see you recognize me, though we were only passers-by on the Lake of Garda! I must apologize for this intrusion, but, as a matter of fact, my servant Browning described a gentleman who called upon me a few days ago, and I at once recognized him to have been you. He was rather rude to you, I fear, and – ”

“My dear fellow!” he interrupted, with a hearty, good-natured laugh. “He only did his duty as your servant. He objected to my infernal impertinence – and very rightly, too.”

“It was surely no impertinence to call upon me!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’s all a question of one’s definition of impertinence,” he said. “I made certain inquiries – rather searching inquiries regarding you – that was all.”

“Why?” I asked.

He moved uneasily in his padded writing-chair, then reached over and placed a box of cigarettes before me. After we had both lit up, he answered in a rather low, changed voice —

“Well, I wanted to satisfy myself as to who you were, Mr. Biddulph,” he laughed. “Merely to gratify a natural curiosity.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “Why should your curiosity have been aroused concerning me? I do not think I have ever made a secret to any one regarding my name or my position, or anything else.”

“But you might have done, remember,” replied the thin-faced rector, looking at me calmly yet mysteriously with those straight grey eyes of his.

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Shuttleworth,” I said, much puzzled.

“Probably not,” was his response; “I had no intention to obtrude myself upon you. I merely called at Wilton Street in order to learn what I could, and I came away quite satisfied, even though your butler spoke so sharply.”

“But with what motive did you make your inquiries?” I demanded.

“Well, as a matter of fact, my motive was in your own interests, Mr. Biddulph,” he replied, as he thoughtfully contemplated the end of his cigarette. “This may sound strange to you, but the truth, could I but reveal it to you, would be found much stranger – a truth utterly incredible.”

“The truth of what?”

“The truth concerning a certain young lady in whom, I understand, you have evinced an unusual interest,” was his reply.

I could see that he was slightly embarrassed. I recollected how he had silently watched us on that memorable night by the moonlit lake, and a feeling of resentment arose within me.

“Yes,” I said anxiously next moment, “I am here to learn the truth concerning Miss Pennington. Tell me about her. She has explained to me that you are her friend – and I see, yonder, you have her photograph.”

“It is true,” he said very slowly, in a low, earnest voice, “quite true, Son – er, Sylvia – is my friend,” and he coughed quickly to conceal the slip in the name.

“Then tell me something about her, and her father. Who is he?” I urged. “At her request I left Gardone suddenly, and came home to England.”

“At her request!” he echoed in surprise. “Why did she send you away from her side?”

I hesitated. Should I reveal to him the truth?

“She declared that it was better for us to remain apart,” I said.

“Yes,” he sighed. “And she spoke the truth, Mr. Biddulph – the entire truth, remember.”

“Why? Do tell me what you know concerning the man Pennington.”

“I regret that I am not permitted to do that.”

“Why?”

For some moments he did not reply. He twisted his cigarette in his thin, nervous fingers, his gaze being fixed upon the lawn outside. At last, however, he turned to me, and in a low, rather strained tone said slowly —

“The minister of religion sometimes learns strange family secrets, but, as a servant of God, the confidences and confessions reposed in him must always be treated as absolutely sacred. Therefore,” he added, “please do not ask me again to betray my trust.”

His was, indeed, a stern rebuke. I saw that, in my eager enthusiasm, I had expected him to reveal a forbidden truth. Therefore I stammered an apology.

“No apology is needed,” was his grave reply, his keen eyes fixed upon me. “But I hope you will forgive me if I presume to give you, in your own interests, a piece of advice.”

“And what is that?”

“To keep yourself as far as possible from both Pennington and his daughter,” he responded slowly and distinctly, a strange expression upon his clean-shaven face.

“But why do you tell me this?” I cried, still much mystified. “Have you not told me that you are Sylvia’s friend?”

“I have told you this because it is my duty to warn those in whose path a pitfall is spread.”

“And is a pitfall spread in mine?”

“Yes,” replied the grave-faced, ascetic-looking rector, as he leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Before you, my dear sir, there lies an open grave. Behind it stands that girl yonder” – and he pointed with his lean finger to the framed photograph – “and if you attempt to reach her you must inevitably fall into the pit – that death-trap so cunningly prepared. Do not, I beg of you, attempt to approach the unattainable.”

I saw that he was in dead earnest.

“But why?” I demanded in my despair, for assuredly the enigma was increasing hourly. “Why are you not open and frank with me? I – I confess I – ”

“You love her, eh?” he asked, looking at me quickly as he interrupted me. “Ah, yes,” he sighed, as a dark shadow overspread his thin, pale face, “I guessed as much – a fatal love. You are young and enthusiastic, and her pretty face, her sweet voice and her soft eyes have fascinated you. How I wish, Mr. Biddulph, that I could reveal to you the ghastly, horrible truth. Though I am your friend – and hers, yet I must, alas! remain silent! The inviolable seal of The Confessional is upon my lips!”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER

Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector, had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honest man.

Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannot tell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than the mere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state of being. When it is born the man is new-made.

Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, ever mystified, ever apprehensive.

Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morning I was disappointed.

It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf lay between us.

Where was she, I wondered? I dared not write to Gardone, as she had begged me not to do so. She had left there, no doubt, for was she not a constant wanderer? Was not her stout, bald-headed father the modern incarnation of the Wandering Jew?

May lengthened into June, with its usual society functions and all the wild gaiety of the London season. The Derby passed and Ascot came, the Park was full every day, theatres and clubs were crowded, and the hotels overflowed with Americans and country cousins. I had many invitations, but accepted few. Somehow, my careless cosmopolitanism had left me. I had become a changed man.

And if I were to believe the woman who had come so strangely and so suddenly into my life, I was a marked man also.

Disturbing thoughts often arose within me in the silence of the night, but, laughing at them, I crushed them down. What had I possibly to fear? I had no enemy that I was aware of. The whole suggestion seemed so utterly absurd and far-fetched.

Jack Marlowe came back from Denmark hale and hearty, and more than once I was sorely tempted to explain to him the whole situation. Only I feared he would jeer at me as a love-sick idiot.

What was the secret held by that grey-faced country parson? Whatever it might be, it was no ordinary one. He had spoken of the seal of The Confessional. What sin had Sylvia Pennington confessed to him?

Day after day, as I sat in my den at Wilton Street smoking moodily and thinking, I tried vainly to imagine what cardinal sin she could have committed. My sole thoughts were of her, and my all-consuming eagerness was to meet her again.

On the night of the twentieth of June – I remember the date well because the Gold Cup had been run that afternoon – I had come in from supper at the Ritz about a quarter to one, and retired to bed. I suppose I must have turned in about half-an-hour, when the telephone at my bedside rang, and I answered.

“Hulloa!” asked a voice. “Is that you, Owen?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Jack speaking – Jack Marlowe,” exclaimed the distant voice. “Is that you, Owen? Your voice sounds different.”

“So does yours, a bit,” I said. “Voices often do on the ’phone. Where are you?”

“I’m out in Bayswater – Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” my friend replied. “I’m in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I’m so sorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn’t ask you to turn out at this hour if it weren’t imperative.”