Hushed Up! A Mystery of London

My brain was awhirl. My only thought was of Sylvia and of her strange connection with these undesirable persons who had so ingeniously stolen my money, and who had baited such a fatal trap.

Anxious as I was to get to a telephone and ring up Jack, yet I could not leave my post – I had promised to await her.

Nearly an hour went by; I entered the shop and searched its labyrinth of “departments.” But I could not distinguish her anywhere. Upstairs and downstairs I went, inquiring here and there, but nobody seemed to have seen the fair young lady in black; the great emporium seemed to have swallowed her up.

It was now noon. Even though she might have been through a dress-fitting ordeal, an hour was certainly ample time. Therefore I began to fear that she had missed me. There were several other exits higher up the street, and also one which I discovered in a side street.

I returned to her taxi, for I had already paid off my man. The driver had not seen his “fare.”

“I was hailed by the lady close to Chapel Street,” he said, “and I drove ’er to Oxford Street, not far from Tottenham Court Road. We stood at the kerb for about ten minutes. Then she ordered me to drive with all speed over ’ere.”

“Did you see her speak with any gentleman?”

“She was with a dark, youngish gentleman when they hailed me. She got in and left ’im in Chapel Street. I heard ’im say as we went off that he’d see ’er again soon.”

“That’s all you know of her?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen ’er before,” replied the driver. Then he added with a smile, “Your man’s been tellin’ me as how you thought I had a bank-thief in my cab!”

“Yes, but I was mistaken,” I said. “I must have made a mistake in the cab.”

“That’s very easy, sir. We’re so much alike – us red ’uns.”

Sylvia’s non-appearance much puzzled me. What could it mean? For another half-hour – an anxious, impatient, breathless half-hour – I waited, but she did not return.

Had she, too, cleverly escaped by entering the shop, and passing out by another entrance?

Another careful tour of the establishment revealed the fact that she certainly was not there.

And so, after a wait of nearly two hours, I was compelled to accept the hard and very remarkable fact that she had purposely evaded me, and escaped!

Then she was in league with the men who had stolen my thousand pounds! And yet had not that selfsame man declared that she, having betrayed him, was to meet the same terrible fate as that prepared for me?

For a final five minutes I waited; then annoyed, disappointed and dismayed, entered the taxi, and drove to Wilton Street.

On entering with my latch-key, Browning came forward with a puzzled expression, surprised, no doubt, at my dishevelled appearance.

“I’ve been very anxious about you, Mr. Owen,” exclaimed the old man. I was always Mr. Owen to him, just as I had been when a lad. “When I went to your room this morning I found your bed empty. I wondered where you had gone.”

“I’ve had a strange adventure, Browning,” I laughed, rather forcedly I fear. “Has Mr. Marlowe rung me up?”

“No, sir. But somebody else rang up about an hour ago, and asked whether you were in.”

“Who was it?”

“I couldn’t quite catch the name, sir. It sounded like Shuffle – something.”

“Shuttleworth!” I cried. “Did he leave any message?”

“No, sir. He merely asked if you were in – that’s all.”

As Sylvia was in London, perhaps Shuttleworth was in town also, I reflected. Yet she had cleverly made her escape – in order to avoid being questioned. Her secret was a guilty one!

I called up Jack, who answered cheerily as usual.

“You didn’t ring me up about one o’clock this morning, did you?” I inquired.

“No. Why?” he asked.

“Oh – well, nothing,” I said. “I thought perhaps it might have been you – that’s all. What time shall you be in at White’s?”

“About four. Will you be there?”

“Yes.”

“Right-ho! Good-bye, old man,” and he rang off.

I ascended to my room, changed my clothes, and made myself respectable. But during the time I was dressing I reflected whether I should go to Scotland Yard and relate my strange experience. Such clever fiends as Reckitt and Forbes deserved punishment. What fearful crimes had been committed in that weird, neglected house I dreaded to think. My only hesitation, however, was caused by the thought that perhaps Sylvia might be implicated. I felt somehow impelled to try and solve the problem for myself. I had lost a thousand pounds. Yet had I not fallen into that trap in utter disregard of Sylvia’s warning?

Therefore, I resolved to keep my own counsel for the present, and to make a few inquiries in order to satisfy my curiosity. So, putting on a different suit, a different collar, and a soft felt hat which I never wore, in a perhaps feeble attempt to transform myself from my usual appearance, I went forth again.

My first visit was to the bank, where I saw the manager and explained that the cheque had been stolen from my pocket, though I did not expose the real facts. Then, after he had condoled with me upon my loss, and offered to send the description of the thief to the police at once, I re-entered the taxi, and drove back to Porchester Terrace, alighting a short distance from Althorp House.

CHAPTER TEN

CONTAINS A FURTHER SURPRISE

It was nearly one o’clock, and the sun was high, as I walked beneath the dingy brick walls which separate each short garden from the pavement. In some gardens were stunted trees, blackened by the London smoke, while the houses were mostly large and comfortable, for it is still considered a “genteel,” if somewhat decayed neighbourhood.

Before that house of horror I paused for a moment. The dingy blinds of yellow holland were drawn at each of the soot-grimed windows, blackened by age and dirt. The garden was weedy and neglected, for the grass grew high on the patch of lawn, and the dead leaves of the tulips and daffodils of spring had not been removed.

The whole place presented a sadly neglected, sorry appearance – a state of uncared-for disorder which, in the darkness of night, I had, of course, not noticed.

As I looked within the garden I saw lying behind the wall an old weather-beaten notice-board which bore the words “To be let, Furnished,” and giving the name of a well-known firm of estate agents in Pall Mall.

The house next door was smart and well kept, therefore I resolved to make inquiry there.

Of the tall, thin, old man-servant who answered my ring, I inquired the name of the occupant of Althorp House.

“Well, sir,” he replied, “there hasn’t been an occupant since I’ve been in service here, and that’s ten years last March. An old lady lived there, I’ve heard – a rather eccentric old lady. They’ve tried to let it furnished, but nobody has taken it. It is said that the old lady left instructions in her will that the furniture was to be left just as it was for twenty years after her death. I expect the place must be fine and dirty! An old woman goes there once every six weeks or so, I believe, just to open the doors and let in a little air. But it’s never cleaned.”

“And nobody has been over it with a view to renting it?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“There’s never been anybody going in or out – eh?”

“Well, I’ve never seen them, sir,” was the man’s reply.

“But there have been people coming and going, have there not?”

The man hesitated for a moment, apparently slightly puzzled at my question.

“Well, sir, to tell the truth, there’s been a very funny story about lately. It is said that some of the old woman’s relatives have returned, and they’ve been seen going in and out – but always in the middle of the night.”

“What sort of people?” I asked quickly.

“Oh! two men and a woman – so they say. But of course I’ve never seen anybody. I’ve asked the constables on night duty, and they’ve never seen any one, or they would, no doubt, have reported it.”

“Then who has seen them?”

“I really don’t know. I heard the gossip over in the Royal Oak. How it originated, or whether it had any foundation in fact, I can’t find out.”

“I see the board has fallen down.”

“Yes, that’s been down for a couple of months or more – blown down by the wind, I suppose.”

“You haven’t heard cabs stopping outside at night, for instance?”

“No, sir. I sleep at the back, and should therefore not hear.”

I could see that he was a little uncertain as to the reason of my inquiries, therefore I made an excuse that having been struck by the appearance of the house so long neglected my curiosity had been aroused.

“You’ve never heard of cabs stopping there at night?” I asked, a few moments later.

“Well, this morning the cook, who sleeps upstairs in front, funnily enough, told me a curious story of how in the night a taxi stopped and a gentleman got out and entered the house. A few minutes later another man came forth from the house, paid the taxi-driver, and he moved off. But,” laughed the man-servant, “I fancy cook had been dreaming. I’m going to ask the constable when he comes on duty to-night if he saw any strangers here.”

I smiled. The man whom the cook saw had evidently been myself.

Then, after a further chat, I pressed half-a-crown into his ready palm and left.

My next visit was to the estate agents in Pall Mall, where, presenting myself as a possible tenant, the clerk at whose table I had taken a seat said —

“Well, sir, Althorp House is in such a bad, neglected state that we do not now-a-days send clients to view it. Old Mrs. Carpenter died some thirteen years ago, and according to her will the place had to be left undisturbed, and let furnished. The solicitors placed it in our hands, but the property until the twenty years have elapsed, is quite untenantable. The whole place has now gone to rack and ruin. We have a number of other furnished houses which I will be most delighted to give you orders to view.”

In pretence that I wanted a house I allowed him to select three for me, and while doing so learnt some further particulars regarding the dark house in Porchester Terrace. As far as he knew, the story of Mrs. Carpenter’s relatives taking secret possession was a myth.

The caretaker had been withdrawn two years ago, and the place simply locked up and left. If burglars broke in, there was nothing of value for them to take, he added.

Thus the result of my inquiries went to confirm my suspicion that the ingenious pair of malefactors had taken possession of the place temporarily, in order to pursue their nefarious plans.

There was a garden at the rear. Might it not also be the grave wherein the bodies of their innocent victims were interred?

That afternoon, at four, I met Jack Marlowe in White’s, and as we sat in our big arm-chairs gazing through the windows out into the sunshine of St. James’s Street, I asked him whether he would be prepared to accompany me upon an adventurous visit to a house in Bayswater.

The long-legged, clean-shaven, clean-limbed fellow with the fairish hair and merry grey eyes looked askance for a moment, and then inquired —

“What’s up, old man? What’s the game?” He was always eager for an adventure, I knew.

“Well, the fact is I want to look around a house in Porchester Terrace, that’s all. I want to search the garden when nobody’s about.”

“Why?”

“In order to satisfy myself about something.”

“Become an amateur detective – eh, Owen?”

“Well, my curiosity has certainly been aroused, and I intend to go to the house late to-night and look round the garden. Will you come?”

He was one of the best of good fellows, overflowing with good humour and good nature. His face seemed to wear a perpetual smile of contentment.

“Of course. But tell me more,” he asked.

“I will – afterwards,” I said. “Let’s dine together somewhere, and turn in at the Empire afterwards. We don’t want to get to Bayswater before midnight, as we mustn’t be seen. Don’t dress. I’ll bring an electric torch.”

“I’ve got one. I’ll bring mine also,” he replied, at once entering into the spirit of the adventure. “Only you might tell me what’s in the wind, Owen,” he added.

“I’ll tell you afterwards, old chap,” I promised.

And then we separated, agreeing to meet at eight at a well-known restaurant which we often patronized.

That night, when the curtain fell at the Empire, we both went forth and strolled along to St. James’s Street to get a drink at the club. The later we went forth on our nocturnal inquiry, the better.

I recollected that look of terror and astonishment on Forbes’s countenance when his gaze had met mine outside the bank – a look which showed that he had believed me to be safely out of the way. He had never dreamed I was still alive! Hence it seemed to me certain that the pair of malefactors, having secured the money, would at once make themselves scarce. How, I wondered, could they have known of Jack Marlowe, unless they had watched us both in secret, as seemed most likely.

That they would not return again to that house of horror in Bayswater seemed certain.

Towards one o’clock we took a taxi off the stand outside White’s and drove to Porchester Terrace, alighting some distance from our destination. We passed the constable strolling slowly in the opposite direction, and when at last we gained the rusty iron gate we both slipped inside, quietly and unobserved.

The street lamp in the vicinity lit up the front of the dingy house, therefore fearing observation from any of the servants next door, we moved noiselessly in the shadow of the bushes along the side of the premises, past a small conservatory, many panes of glass of which were broken, and so into the darkness of the small back garden, which seemed knee-deep in grass and weeds, and which, from its position, hemmed in by blank walls, could not be overlooked save from the house itself.

All was silence. The scene was weird in the extreme. In the distance could be heard the faint hum of the never-ceasing traffic of London. Above, showed the dark windows of that grim old place wherein I had so nearly lost my life.

“I want to examine this garden thoroughly,” I whispered to Jack, and then I switched on my torch and showed a light around. A tangle of weeds and undergrowth was revealed – a tangle so great that to penetrate it without the use of a bill-hook appeared impossible.

Still we went forward, examining everywhere with our powerful electric lights.

“What will the people say?” laughed Jack. “They’ll take us for burglars, old chap!”

“The place is empty,” I replied. “Our only fear is of the police. To them we would be compelled to make an explanation – and that’s just what I don’t want to do.”

For some time we carefully searched, conversing only in whispers. My hands were scratched, and stung by nettles, and Jack had his coat badly torn by thorns. The garden had been allowed to run wild for all the years since old Mrs. Carpenter’s death, and the two ash trees had spread until their thick branches overshadowed a large portion of the ground.

Beneath one of these trees I suddenly halted as an ejaculation escaped me. Near the trunk, and in such a position that it would not be seen even from the windows of the house, yawned a hole, and at its side a mound of newly-dug earth.

“Ah!” I cried. “This is what I’ve been in search of!” The discovery revealed a ghastly truth. I shuddered at the sight of it.

“What, that hole?” asked Jack, in a low voice as we approached and peered into it. I judged it to be about three feet or so in depth. “What a funny thing to search for!”

“That hole, Jack, was intended for a man’s grave!” I whispered hoarsely, “and the man intended was myself!”

“You!” he gasped. “What do you mean, Owen?”

“I mean that that grave yonder was dug in order to conceal my dead body,” was my low, meaning answer. “And I fear – fear very much – that the remains of others who have met with foul play have been concealed here!”

“You mean that murder was actually intended!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “When?”

“Last night. I was entrapped here and narrowly escaped.”

“How? Tell me all about it,” he urged.

“Later on. Not here,” I said. “Let us see if there is any further evidence of recent digging,” and together we examined the ground beneath the second tree.

Presently Jack in the course of searching about, came to a spot where the ground seemed perceptibly softer. My stick sank in, while in other parts the ground seemed hard. Beneath the trees the weeds and grass grew thinly, and I presumed that the miscreants could work there under the canopy of leaves without fear of observation.

I bent down and carefully examined the surface, which, for about four feet square, bore plain traces of having recently been moved.

Something had evidently been interred there. Yet tiny fresh blades of green were just springing up, as though grass-seed had been sprinkled over in order to obliterate traces of the recent excavation.

“What do you think of it?” I inquired of my companion.

“Well, perhaps somebody has really been buried here – eh?” he said. “Don’t you think you ought to go and tell the police at once?”

I was silent, in bewilderment.

“My own opinion is, Owen, that if a serious attempt has been made upon you, and you really suspect that that hole yonder was prepared to receive you, then it is your duty to tell the police. Others may fall into the trap,” Jack added.

“Not here,” I said. “The assassins will not return, never fear. They know of their failure in my case, and by this time they are, in all probability, out of the country.”

“But surely we ought to examine this spot and ascertain whether the remains of any one is concealed here!” exclaimed my old friend.

Yet I still hesitated, hesitated because I feared that any exposure must implicate that sweet little girl who, though my friend, had so ingeniously escaped me.

At the same moment, however, our ears both caught a slight movement among the tangled shrubs under the wall at the extreme end of the garden. Instantly we shut off our lamps, and stood motionless, listening.

At first I believed it to be only the scrambling of a cat. But next second Jack nudged my arm, and straining my eyes I saw a dark figure moving stealthily along, half crouching so as to be less conspicuous, but moving slowly towards that side of the house which was the only exit.

Fearing discovery there, our examination being so thorough, the intruder was slowly creeping off, endeavouring to escape observation.

For an instant I remained motionless, watching the dark, crouching figure. Then, drawing my revolver, I made a dash straight in its direction.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHAT THE POLICE KNEW

As I pushed my way through the tangle of weeds and undergrowth, Jack followed closely at my heels.

The dark figure leapt away in an instant, and dashed round the corner by the ruined conservatory, but I was too quick for him. I caught him up when he gained the front of the house, and there, in the light of the street-lamp, my eyes fell upon a strange-looking object.

He proved to be a ragged, hunchbacked youth, so deformed as to be extremely ugly, both in face and figure. His hair, long and lank, hung about his shoulders, while his dark eyes stood out in terror when I ordered him to halt, and covered him with my shining weapon.

His was the most weird figure that I had seen for many a day. I judged him to be about eighteen or nineteen, though he looked older. His legs were short, his head seemed far too big for his crooked body, while his arms were long and ape-like, and his fingers thin, like talons.

“Now then, what are you doing here?” I demanded in a firm, commanding voice.

But he only quivered, and crouched against the wall like a whipped dog.

“Speak!” I said. “Who are you?”

He gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, almost a screech, and then grinned horribly in my face.

“Who are you?” I repeated. “Where do you live?”

But though his mouth moved, as though he replied, no sound escaped him.

I spoke again, but he only laughed wildly, his thin fingers twitching.

“Ho! ho! ho!” he ejaculated, pointing back to the neglected garden.

“I wonder what he means!” exclaimed Jack.

“Why, I believe he’s an idiot!” I remarked.

“He has every appearance of one,” declared my companion, who then addressed him, with the same negative result.

Again the weird, repulsive youth pointed back to the garden, and, laughing hideously, uttered some words in gibberish which were quite unintelligible.

“If we remain here chattering, the constable will find us,” I remarked, so we all three went forth into the street, the ugly hunchback walking at my side, quite tractable and quiet.

Presently, unable to gather a single intelligible sentence from him, Jack and I resolved to leave him, and afterwards follow him and ascertain where he lived.

Why had he pointed to the garden and laughed so hilariously? Had he witnessed any of those nocturnal preparations – or interments?

At last, at the corner of Bishop’s Road, we wished him farewell and turned away. Then, at a respectable distance, we drew into a gateway to watch. He remained standing where we had left him for some ten minutes or so, until a constable slowly approached, and, halting, began to chat to him.

Apparently he was a well-known figure, for we could hear the policeman speaking, and could distinguish the poor fellow laughing that queer, harsh, discordant laugh – the laugh of the idiot.

Presently the constable moved forward again, whereupon I said —

“I’ll get on and have a chat with the policeman, Jack. You follow the hunchback if he moves away.”

“Right-ho,” replied my friend, while I sped off, crossing the road and making a detour until I met the constable.

Having wished him good-night, I inquired the identity of the deformed youth.

“Oh, sir,” he laughed, “that’s Mad ’Arry. ’E’s quite ’armless. ’E’s out most nights, but we never see ’im in the day, poor chap. I’ve known ’im ever since he was about nine.”

“Does no work, I suppose?”

“None. ’Ow can ’e? ’E’s as mad as a hatter, as the sayin’ goes,” replied the constable, his thumbs hitched in his belt as he stood.

“A kind of midnight wanderer, eh?”

“Yes, ’e’s always a-pryin’ about at night. Not long ago ’e found burglars in a ’ouse in Gloucester Terrace, and gave us the alarm. We copped four of ’em. The magistrate gave ’im a guinea out o’ the poor-box.”

“Ah! so he’s of use to you?”

“Yes, sir, ’e’s most intelligent where there’s any suspicious characters about. I’ve often put ’im on the watch myself.”

“Then he’s not quite insane?”

“Not on that point, at any rate,” laughed the officer.

“Where does he live?”

“’Is father’s a hackney-carriage driver, and ’e lives with ’im up in Gloucester Mews, just at the back of Porchester Mews – I don’t know if you know it?”

I was compelled to confess ignorance of the locality, but he directed me.

“Are you on night-duty in Porchester Terrace, constable?” I asked a few moments later.

“Yes, sir, sometimes. Why?”

“You know Althorp House, of course?”

“Yes, the ’aunted ’ouse, as some people call it. Myself, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I,” I laughed, “but I’ve heard many funny stories about that place. Have you ever heard any?”

“Lots, sir,” replied the man. “We’re always being told of strange things that ’ave ’appened there, yet when we ’ave a look around we never find anything, so we’ve ceased to trouble. Our inspector’s given us orders not to make any further inquiries, ’e’s been worried too often over idle gossip.”

“What’s the latest story afloat concerning the place?” I asked. “I’m always interested in mysteries of that sort.”

“Oh, I ’eard yesterday that somebody was seen to get out of a taxi-cab and enter. And ’e ’asn’t been seen to come forth again.”

“That’s curious,” I said. “And haven’t you looked over the place?”

“I’m not on duty there. Perhaps my mate ’as. I don’t know. But, funnily enough,” added the officer, “Mad ’Arry has been tellin’ me something about it a moment ago – something I can’t understand – something about the garden. I suppose ’e’s been a-fancyin’ something or other. Everybody seems to see something in the garden, or at the windows. Why, about a week ago, a servant from one of the ’ouses in the Terrace came up to me at three o’clock in the afternoon, in broad daylight, and said as how she’d distinctly seen at the drawin’-room window the face of a pretty, fair-haired girl a-peerin’ through the side of the dirty blind. She described the girl, too, and said that as soon as she saw she was noticed the inmate of the place drew back instantly.”