The Twickenham Peerage

'Then-then there was witchcraft.'

'Witchcraft? What do you mean?'

I couldn't tell him. I hardly knew myself. Only if what he said was true, and I felt sure that he believed it was, then somewhere there was a mystery which was beyond my understanding. I let Mr. FitzHoward talk to him instead of me.

'Excuse me, sir-or my lord, as it seems you are-but might I ask what the late Marquis is supposed to have died of?'

'Supposed? There is no supposition about it. He died of heart disease.'

'Then give me leave to tell you there's a good deal of supposition about it. Although I'm not a betting man, I'm ready to bet a thousand pounds to a brass button that he did nothing of the kind.'

'Do you add medical qualifications to those others you were speaking of.'

'I do not; but I do add common-sense. I suppose there was a medical certificate? Who signed it?'

'Sir Gregory Hancock, a physician of whom you may have heard, and Dr. White.'

'Then, between them, they made a jolly fine muddle. The day before he died he was in perfect health, and as fit as you and I-if not fitter!'

'It's incredible.'

'Is it? I'll produce half-a-dozen doctors, at least, who'll certify-I have some of their certificates at home in my desk at this minute-that his heart was sound as sound could be, and that his general health and condition were the best possible.'

'I say again it's incredible.'

'Do you? The night before he died he slept at the York Hotel. Before he left, on the morning of his death, he ate a good breakfast and had two or three goes of whisky. The landlord had a chat with him before he went, and he'll tell you, as he told me, that he never saw him in better health or spirits; and you can bet your life that that wasn't the first time he'd seen him.'

'If what you say is correct, then there's something which I fail to understand.'

'There's a good deal which I fail to understand. I believe there's only one person who does understand, and that's the Hon. Douglas Howarth.'

'Your tone seems to convey something injurious to Mr. Howarth.'

'I don't know about injurious, only I should just like to know how he managed it, that's all.'

'Managed what?'

'Well, doesn't it strike you there was management about it somewhere? It does me.'

'I have been intimately acquainted with Mr. Howarth my whole life long, and I know him to be incapable of doing anything in the least degree unworthy.'

'Well, I've known him to tell a lie or two-and red-hot ones at that.'

'How dare you say, sir, that Mr. Howarth told you a lie?'

'Look here, my lord, this isn't a question of words, but of fact. How did Mr. Howarth transform a man who, in the morning, was hale and hearty, by the afternoon, into the kind of creature you spoke about-so that, by the night, he was dead? If he's a friend of yours, you'll get him to explain how he did it before he's made to.'

'Mr. Howarth will give you any and every explanation you have a right to demand.'

'My lord, I'm a mouthpiece for this lady. It's her husband we're talking about. A wife has as much right as a brother, not to speak of a brother's friend.'

The young gentleman turned to me.

'Surely you cannot seriously suppose that your husband was-as this gentleman seems to suggest-the subject of foul play?'

'My James was well upon the Sunday; you say he died upon the Monday. I don't believe he did die; but if he did die, he was killed.'

'But this is monstrous. If what Mr. FitzHoward says about the condition of your husband's health when you last saw him is correct-'

'It is correct.'

'Then in that case there is something somewhere which I own that I don't understand; but to suggest that it is anything which will not bear the light of day, or which a few words will not make clear-that is absurd. But come with me, and you shall have all the explanation which you can possibly require, probably inside half-an-hour.'

'From Mr. Howarth?'

It was Mr. FitzHoward who asked.

'If Mr. Howarth has anything to explain, I am quite sure he will explain it-to the proper person.'

'With your permission, Marchioness'-the man would keep talking to me in that silly way; I wished he wouldn't! – 'we'll have this matter settled, once for all, in a proper business manner. His lordship keeps snubbing me, thinking, I suppose, that I'm the sort of person who oughtn't to have anything to do with his aristocratic family; but as I also happen to have had some interest in his brother, the nature of which I'll explain to him a little later on, he won't find that I'm easily snubbed. This is an affair which is not likely to be pleasant to any of us; therefore I say that the sooner we get at the bottom of it, so that we can be quit of it for good and all, the better. So as I say, Marchioness, with your permission I'll go and get those certificates of which I spoke, and I'll hunt up at least one of the gentlemen who signed them, and with him I'll follow you to Mr. Howarth's.'

'We're not going to Mr. Howarth's, but to my-or rather-well, to what is at present my house in St. James's Square.'

'Very good; I'll be there nearly as soon as you are. And if you'll allow me to suggest, my lord, you'll have one of the gentlemen who signed that certificate to meet my doctor when he comes.'

'It will be quite unnecessary.'

'You must excuse my remarking that I rather fancy you'll find you're wrong. I don't want to be accused of saying anything monstrous; but the more I think things over, the more I become convinced that there's something in this business which will-well, we'll say, create astonishment. Anyhow, this lady is entitled to be made acquainted with all the details of her husband's unexpected and mysterious death; and also to see, and talk to, the medical gentleman who attended him in his last hours.'

'If that is the way in which you put it, it will be easy to call at Sir Gregory Hancock's as we go, and to request him to favour us with his presence at Twickenham House. He will soon satisfy any doubts which this lady may entertain.'

In this way it was arranged, though not altogether to my liking. The children and I went with the young gentleman in a four wheeler, though it was with a heavy heart I shut the door of No. 32 behind me. He wouldn't let me take hardly any clothing, except a few things I put together in a bag. He wouldn't even let me put the children into their best things; I had to take them just as they were. He said we should get everything we wanted at Twickenham House. Just as though I wanted other people's things when I'd got everything as nice as possible of my own!

As we rattled through the streets-and the cab did rattle! – my head was all in a whirl. What I had gone through during the last few hours was almost more than I could bear. I had got used to watching and waiting, day after day and week after week, for what seemed as if it would never come, but this was beyond that altogether. It doesn't take much to muddle me, and amidst it all the only thing I could take right hold of was that they said that my James was dead. I sat with my heart as cold as ice, and my eyes burning, as if something had stung them. If I could have cried, it would have been something; but I couldn't. Whether I was doing a wise thing in leaving my own house, and coming to this strange place, I couldn't think.

We stopped at a house which I understood was Sir Gregory Somebody's, the great doctor. It seemed, from what passed, that he was to come on after us. It wasn't long before we stopped again; this time at a great house in a great square. The young gentleman got out, and he had hardly touched the bell before the door was open, and he was leading the children and me into the house. I never saw the likes of it. There were footmen in white stockings and powdered hair, and a hall which was bigger than any room I ever came across. It seemed against nature that I should go into such a place as if I owned it. No wonder that I pressed the children's hands, so that they clung tighter to me. I felt that the mites were trembling; I don't doubt I trembled too.

He took me into a room in which were the two ladies who had been the day before at Mr. Howarth's-Miss Desmond and the young one. Miss Desmond came hurrying towards us.

'So you've brought them, have you? You clever man!' She put her hands upon my shoulder, and kissed me-before I could stop her. 'My dear Mary, welcome home.'

'Begging your pardon, miss, but this isn't my home, or ever will be.'

Somehow the very thought of such a thing made me shiver again. She laughed.

'Isn't it? We shall see.' She knelt down to talk to Jimmy. She kissed him too. 'Well, my Lord Marquis, and what do you think of your new house? You haven't seen much of it, but you shall see it all before you are much older. We think it's rather a nice house; and we hope you'll think so too.' Jimmy said never a word. 'What! – you won't speak! – not even to me! Never mind; I dare say you'll let me know you have a tongue when we've made friends.' Getting up, she turned to the young lady-who had been standing on one side, eyeing me and the children in a way I was conscious of and didn't like. 'Mary, this is Violet Howarth.'

The young lady put out her hand, keeping herself as stiff and cold as if she were a kind of iceberg.

'How do you do? Is it true that you're the widow of the late Marquis of Twickenham?'

I paid no attention to her hand whatever.

'About that I know nothing. I am Mrs. Merrett.'

I let her see I could be as stiff as she was-in spite of all that I was feeling. Miss Desmond slipped her arm through mine.

'That's right, Mary; you're a faithful creature-stick to the name which you know best. Leonard must have had some redeeming qualities, or he would never have been able to win the love of a good woman and keep it. There must be something in a man if he can do that. Come, you three, let's go and see what we can find upstairs.'

She was leading us out of the room-I seemed to have lost all power of resisting anything or any one-when the door opened and Mr. Howarth entered. His face when he saw us was a picture.

'Reggie, what-what insensate folly's this?'

'My dear Douglas, it's no folly at all. There'll come a time, and that before very long, when you'll realise that it's the truest wisdom. Let me introduce you to the Marquis of Twickenham, and to his mother, my sister, the Marchioness.'

'Don't-don't talk such d- nonsense. You don't know what an ass you're making of yourself.' He strode across the room, avoiding us as much as he possibly could-as if we wanted him to come near! He turned on Miss Desmond with a sort of snarl. 'Is it you who have instigated him to make such a crass exhibition of this masterpiece of imbecility?'

'I told him the truth, Douglas. Whereupon he concluded that, from every point of view, honesty would be the better policy. It surprises and pains me to learn you don't.'

'Honesty! honesty! honesty!' He put his hands up to his head, so that I thought he was going to tear his hair, like those people in the Bible. But he didn't. 'Good Lord! You're only fit for a lunatic asylum, all the lot of you!'

'There are worse places than lunatic asylums, Douglas.'

'But there's none more suitable. You haven't the faintest notion of what it is you're doing. I tell you you're doing irreparable mischief, in complete unconsciousness of the career of stark, staring madness on which you've started.'

Silence followed his burst of temper. I don't fancy the young gentleman was best pleased, either by his words or his manner. When he spoke there was something in his voice which I hadn't heard in it before.

CHAPTER XVIII

MR. HOWARTH AGAINST THE WORLD

'Suppose, Douglas, you enlighten our ignorance. We are acting in accordance with our lights. If we are moving in darkness, surely the fault is rather yours than ours.'

Somehow I felt that, in his turn, Mr. Howarth didn't like the young gentleman's tone. It was quite a time before he spoke again. It seemed as if he was trying to get the better of his temper.

'Reggie, can I speak to you in private?'

'Certainly. But-aren't we in private here?'

'This isn't the sort of privacy I mean.'

The young gentleman seemed to hesitate.

'What is it you wish to say to me?'

'When we're alone I'll tell you.'

'I'll see you alone directly. But before I do so there are one or two things which I should like you to explain, in the presence of this lady.'

'As, for instance?'

'How the late Marquis of Twickenham came to die from heart disease.'

The answer came from the door. There, sure enough, with a gentleman at his side, was Mr. FitzHoward. Never had I seen him when he'd seemed more at his ease. I hadn't thought that it was in him. I know that I'd felt a coward ever since I'd put my foot across the doorstep. He came right forward into the room, without waiting for any one to invite him, as bold and confident as you please. As for Mr. Howarth's black looks-and he gave him some, and somehow there they seemed more hard to meet than they'd been in my home-they never frightened him one little bit.

'That is one thing which we should like you to explain, Mr. Howarth, if you don't mind; – how did the late Marquis of Twickenham come to die of heart disease?'

I believe there'd have been trouble if Mr. Howarth had had Mr. FitzHoward alone in a room with him. If ever I saw a man look like meaning mischief, it was him then. He seemed to draw his body together like a cat does before it jumps. And his hands quivered, as if they itched to beat him. But the fact that he wasn't alone made all the difference, though I fancy he only remembered it just in time. He glanced about him with a kind of start, and drew a long breath. When he spoke there was passion in his voice, which he couldn't disguise.

'What-what's the meaning of this-gentleman's presence here?'

Mr. FitzHoward's manner was as unlike his as it very well could have been. As I've said, I never saw him when he was more himself.

'It means that I want a little explanation, Mr. Howarth-that's all. Quite a simple little point. There's a gentleman here whom I should like to introduce to the ladies and gentlemen present; – Dr. Clinton, M.D. My lord, this is Dr. Philip Clinton-of whom you may have heard.'

The young gentleman held out his hand, which the other took.

'Have I the pleasure of speaking to the Dr. Clinton who is the great authority on the functions of the heart?'

'I am Dr. Clinton, and I have made the heart my special study.'

I liked him, as I had done the young gentleman, directly he opened his mouth. He had a quiet, pleasant way of speaking. He wasn't over young, nor yet he wasn't over old; but he had as nice a face as I could care to meet, with hair on it; brown, comfortable-looking eyes; and about the corners of his mouth what you felt to be a friendly smile.

'Dr. Clinton,' said Mr. FitzHoward, and he waved the hat which he held in his hand as if he owned the house, 'might I ask you what was the character of the late Marquis of Twickenham's heart?'

Dr. Clinton shook his head.

'I'm afraid that I'm hardly in a position to answer that question in the form in which you put it.'

'Then we'll put it in another way. I will ask you what was the character-of course, I mean the physical character-of the heart of the late Mr. Montagu Babbacombe?'

'Sound. But since you have been so good as to enlighten me as to the reasons which may make my presence here of service, perhaps you will allow me to make a brief statement in my own way.'

'Certainly, Doctor. That is what we desire-in your own way.'

'I examined Mr. Montagu Babbacombe on three occasions, each time in association with certain colleagues whose names I will mention if desired. The examination was very thorough. And as a result we unanimously agreed that he was emphatically what the insurance people call a "good life." He showed no traces of organic weakness; and as for the heart, in a medical sense, I never met a better one. I may add that I met him on the morning of the day on which, I learn to my surprise, it is stated that he died. I was driving along Stamford Street when he came out of the York Hotel. I stopped and spoke to him-asking him how he felt after his thirty days' sleep. His own words were that he was as "fit as a fiddle and game for anything"; and he looked it. Under anything like normal circumstances it was practically impossible that he could have died on the afternoon of that day of heart disease.'

'In what way,' asked Mr. Howarth, 'is this of interest to us? The connection which certain persons seem desirous of establishing between Mr. Montagu Babbacombe and the late Marquis is one of the purest presumption.'

Mr. FitzHoward handed a photograph which he took out of his pocket to Dr. Clinton.

'Doctor, do you know the original of that?'

'I do; it is Mr. Montagu Babbacombe; he gave me a similar one. A capital likeness it is.'

'My lord, do you know the original of that?'

Mr. FitzHoward handed on the likeness to the young gentleman.

'I do. It's the portrait of my brother.'

'Thank you. You see, Mr. Howarth, the connection between them is not so shadowy as it seems you'd like us to think; it's recognised by every one but you. And we're still waiting for you to explain how the Marquis of Twickenham came to die of heart disease.'

Mr. Howarth looked at Mr. FitzHoward as if he'd have liked to have torn him in pieces. I'm confident that if it hadn't been for all of us being there, there'd have been violence used.

'I'm not a medical man, you-clever fellow.'

'It seems as if you know how to manufacture heart disease to order, anyhow.'

'What the-!'

He moved forward so that I thought he was going to strike him; only at the last moment he stopped short and changed his mind. The young gentleman laid his hand on Mr. FitzHoward's shoulder.

'Come, sir; let us not deal in innuendo, if you please. Here comes some one who may be able to give you the information you require.' An old gentleman came into the room. He wore gold spectacles. With the fingers and thumb of one hand he lifted them in their place on his nose as he advanced. 'Sir Gregory, this is very kind of you. Your arrival is most opportune. A rather curious point has arisen with regard to my brother's death. We require your aid for its solution. I believe that you certified that the cause of his death was heart disease.'

'Certainly; the immediate cause. Heart disease of long standing. Your brother always had a weak heart, my lord.'

'Then in that case Mr. Montagu Babbacombe wasn't the Marquis of Twickenham.'

This was Dr. Clinton. When he spoke, the old gentleman looked at him and knew him.

'Is that you, Clinton? I didn't catch what it was you said.'

Mr. FitzHoward put himself forward before Dr. Clinton had a chance of answering. He handed the old gentleman the photograph.

'May I ask, sir, if you know who is the original of that?'

'Certainly; very well. It's the late Marquis-as I used to know him.'

'That's a portrait of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, as he appeared on the morning of the day on which the late Marquis is stated to have died.'

'Of whom?'

'Of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'

'Mr. Montagu Babbacombe? Then in that case-but I don't understand.' He turned to the young gentleman. 'Surely this is a portrait of your lordship's brother?'

'Undoubtedly.'

Dr. Clinton spoke.

'The point, Sir Gregory, is this. The idea is that Montagu Babbacombe was only another name for the Marquis of Twickenham; but before that can be admitted there's a difficulty to be got over. I knew Montagu Babbacombe, and I'm ready to testify that he never had anything the matter with his heart in the whole of his life, and that on the morning of the day on which the Marquis died he was in excellent health.'

'Then your Babbacombe wasn't my Marquis. The Marquis of Twickenham inherited a weak heart from his father; and as for being in excellent health on the morning of his death, he'd been dying for months.'

The young gentleman appealed to Mr. Howarth.

'Douglas, I really do believe that the solution of the puzzle is in your hands. Did Leonard masquerade as Montagu Babbacombe?'

'My dear Reggie, I don't propose to furnish any information.'

'But that's an impossible position, one for which I can't conceive your justification. Can't you answer Yes or No?'

'Your brother's dead. That's enough for me. It ought to be enough for you.'

'But don't you see the difficulties which must inevitably arise if you refuse to answer?'

'I confess I don't.'

'Then you must be more short-sighted than I supposed. If my brother called himself Babbacombe, then this lady is his wife; and here's her son. Everything is theirs, and I have nothing.'

'I assure you that this lady is not your brother's wife, and that the young gentleman is no relation of yours.'

'Then do you say that Leonard wasn't Babbacombe?'

'I don't see how it matters if he was or wasn't.'

'Not if this lady was his wife?' Mr. Howarth shrugged his shoulders. 'The attitude of your mind is altogether beyond my comprehension. I thought I knew you; but it seems I don't. During the last few days you have been a different man.'

'Don't talk such nonsense.'

'You have-and you know it. I've felt that there was something at the back, and now I begin to have a glimmer of an idea of what it is. You have persistently refused to tell me what were the circumstances under which you first saw Leonard. I'm sorry to say that I'm beginning to believe that it was because, for reasons of your own, you wished to conceal your knowledge of the fact that he was Babbacombe.'

'Reggie, if you take my serious advice, you will restrain yourself from making any further remarks until we are alone. You are not behaving wisely.'

'Wisely? Thank you; there's a sort of wisdom which I would rather be without. Let me tell you this. I do not intend to allow this doubt to confront me a moment longer than I can help. There is one step which I can take towards its solution, and that step I'll take at once. I'll have the coffin opened, and I'll see who is inside.'

'What?'

'I say I'll have the coffin opened and see who is inside.'

'You-you'll do nothing of the kind.'

Dr. Clinton asked a question.

'Can you do that at once? Won't the legal forms which you have to go through before you can obtain permission involve considerable delay?'

'I'll do it first and obtain permission afterwards. The coffin is on a shelf in our mausoleum at Cressland. I only have to remove the lid and put it back again. The whole thing needn't occupy half an hour.'

'Reggie, you-you shan't do it.'

'I shall; and will.'

'I say you shall not. Come, don't-don't let us quarrel. This sort of thing in public isn't-isn't edifying. And-all about nothing. When you have heard what I have to say to you in private, you will see the matter in a different light.'

'Say what you have to say to me here.'

'I will not. You must wait till we're alone. Wait, I say-wait!'

'Very good. I will. I'll have the coffin opened to-morrow, and wait till afterwards to hear what it is you have to say.'

'Reggie! You won't! I know you won't. You won't be such a fool.'

'What are you afraid of?'

'Afraid? I'm afraid of nothing. Of what should I be afraid?'

'Then why should you object?'

'Because-it's a dreadful thing to think of, after he's been dead so long.'

'Is that the only reason?'

'What other reason should I have?'

I went and held the young gentleman by his arm with both my hands.

'Open the coffin!'

'I intend to.'

'My husband is not inside.'

'How do you know?'

'If he were inside, why should I hear him calling?'

'Calling? What do you mean?'

'I keep hearing him calling to me all the time.'

Mr. Howarth flung himself at me, seeming half beside himself with rage.

'It's a lie! You don't!'

'I do. You hear him too.'

I never saw a man behave so wildly. He seemed to have all at once gone mad.

'I don't! I don't! How can you tell if I do or do not? The idea's nonsense. It's a figment of the brain. I'm-I'm run down, and I fancy things-that's all. Besides, how could he call so that I could hear him-all the way-from Cressland? He must be dead-long since! long since! You're a fool, woman, to suppose he isn't dead-a fool! a fool!' He seemed to suddenly realise how he was talking, and to see our startled faces. 'Why are you all looking at me like that? What's the matter? There's nothing wrong. Reggie, I've not-been very well-lately. You're quite right, I'm a different man. All this-has been too much for me. I want-I want-Who's that calling?'