Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  And he mumbled, and his voice tailed off in the wake of his eyes, and his gaze saw far beyond the mountain and the blue of the sky.

  The Mystery of the Hotel De L’Orme by M. M. B.

  The Victorian era teemed with all manner of magazines. One of the most notable was London Society, “an illustrated magazine of light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation.” It offered, at a very affordable price, a 100-plus page mixture of prose and poetry, of fact and fiction, and all generously decorated with full-page engravings. The Christmas and Holiday numbers, well-stocked with ghosts and mysteries, are particularly interesting but the present tale, from the pen of the impenetrably initialed “M. M. B.,’’ appeared in a standard issue of 1862, only the second year of the magazine’s life. Whoever M. M. B. may have been, he or she combined melodramatic Victorian writing with a locked-room method worthy of the next century’s classic puzzlers.

  Chapter I

  THE little town of St. Bignold was in a ferment when, early in the forenoon of the 8th of October, 1812, a report rang through it that a murder had been committed within its walls. Such a thing had not been heard of for years; not, at all events, since the Comte de l’Orme’s marriage with the black eyed daughter of Lopez, the moneylender—the event from which all the late great occurrences at St. Bignold were dated—and strangely enough the victim of the atrocious deed was Madame de l’Orme herself.

  Everyone at St. Bignold knew how ill that unequal marriage had turned out; indeed, could it be otherwise when it was only for her wealth that the young handsome comté had sold himself to the high-tempered, jealous heiress? Yet at the time all had admired his self-sacrifice, for it was well known that it was made not for his own sake alone, but for that of his orphan sisters and brother, who without it had been left portionless and uneducated. For them he sacrificed his liberty, for them he bound himself for life to one whose golden attractions far exceeded those of her person, and whose pride, self-will, and jealousy, rendered the first five years after their marriage one long-continued succession of disputes and discomforts. At the end of that time old Lopez died; and soon afterwards it was announced that the Comté de l’Orme had volunteered for the Russian campaign.

  No one was astonished, and all were rejoiced to learn that he had discovered so glorious and exemplary a means of escaping from the thraldom in which he had hitherto been held; but they were amazed, indeed, when a week or two after his departure the comtesse broke up her establishment at the castle, and removed to the strange old house at St. Bignold, bequeathed to her by her father.

  The reasons for this change it was difficult to discover, and no one had a right to question them. Yet, the “Hotel de l’Orme, “ as the neighbors had nicknamed old Lopez’s dwelling-place on his daughter’s marriage, was not the place likely to be selected as the abode of a woman so proud of her rank, and so resolute in resisting the slightest approach to familiarity from any one she chose to consider her inferior.

  It is true that the comtesse had had the original entrance to the house built up, and a new approach made to it through a cul-de-sac opening almost directly into the better part of the town; and probably she imagined that by this precaution she had acquired an aristocratic retirement for her mansion, which certainly boasted of some apartments of good size. But to one really alive to the bienseances of life the situation of the house would have caused incessant annoyance, for the original front abutted on one of the worst streets of St. Bignold, inhabited by the very poorest of the people, whose windows completely commanded those of the hotel. One often sees such streets as the Rue Sylvaine in ancient walled towns, where the contracted space obliged the architects to make height take the place of breadth, where the gabled houses rise to an immense height, and each story overhangs the one beneath, until the uppermost ones almost meet in the center, leaving between scarce one narrow strip of sky, and entirely shutting out the rays of the joyful, health-giving sun. Such was the case in the Rue Sylvaine; and of course the Hotel de l’Orme was as dark and dismal as possible, in spite of its carved windows and the really elegant balustrades which ran along the narrow ledge of the third floor, where madame’s principal apartments were situated. The furniture and establishment of the hotel were more in keeping with the situation of the house than the rank of its owner. The ground floor was let off to a shoemaker, whose wife took charge of the apartment above in which Madame de l’Orme received the very few persons who visited her on business affairs—visitors of friendship there never were. A few stiff-backed chairs and spider-legged tables, with one or two tiny squares of carpet in the midst of the highly-waxed floors, composed the furniture of these desolate-looking rooms; nor was the private apartment of madame much more luxuriously furnished, except in one respect, and that oddly enough was in mirrors! The whole chamber seemed lined with them. Turn where you would your own face and figure met your gaze, and the room seemed filled to suffocation with the reflected reflections of it. On a stranger the effect at first was very startling. He seemed to find himself in a crowded room, and a moment or two elapsed ere he discovered that the ideal crowd was formed of repeated images of himself. There were, however, no strangers admitted there during Madame de l’Orme’s life. After her death there were enough, heaven knows!

  The small establishment of this dreary place consisted, besides Madeline the shoemaker’s wife, of a coachman and footman, who only entered the house at stated hours to receive orders for the day, and Madame de l’Ormes’s maid, Julie, a young girl of twenty, the only member of the household of the chateau who had accompanied her mistress to St. Bignold.

  To Julie alone were entrusted the mysteries of the sanctum on the third floor; no one else was permitted to cross the threshold of its iron-bound door, no one else was admitted to the slightest degree of confidence from her haughty mistress. The reason of this confidence in so young a girl it had hitherto been impossible to fathom, though many speculated on the strangeness of one in all respects so great a contrast to her mistress, being exempt from the harsh treatment everyone else had to bear from Madame de l’Orme. But then, as someone wisely remarked, “Who knew what treatment she really did receive?” Old Madeline reported that Julie said Madame was very good to her; but that might or might not be; who could tell? It was certain that Julie always looked melancholy, and that betokened no very happy home!

  Julie’s history was a sad and simple one. Her parents had died of fever when she was a mere infant, and the Comte de l’Orme—he was the Comte Auguste then—had taken pity on the pretty homeless child, and had persuaded his mother to have her brought to the chateau, and educated under her own eye. Thus the little girl was in many things almost a lady, and hence perhaps arose her reserve to those of her own rank, and the few friendships she made among them. On the comté’s marriage, Julie was transferred to the new comtesse’s care, and had been retained in a confidential capacity near her person ever since. Indeed it was often said that if Madame de l’Orme cared for any one or trusted any one, it was Julie.

  Scandal-mongers hinted that the watchful care she bestowed on the orphan might arise less from affection than jealousy; that she was clever enough to see that the best chance of discouraging Monsieur de l’Orme’s evident partiality for the young girl was to keep her constantly under her own eye. But this was only scandal. It is true that in his lady’s presence it was impossible for him to say even one kind word to the child whose life he had saved, and whom he had hitherto treated with brotherly kindness, but that was all. Yet every one remarked that when Monsieur de l’Orme and his valet left the castle little Julie looked very sad, and when some time afterwards it was certain that they had joined the fatal Russian expedition she looked sadder still. Then the news from the seat of war, how eagerly she listened to it! How pale her cheek grew when a report reached St. Bignold that the division in which Monsieur de l’Orme served had been exposed to great danger at the passage of the Niemen! How her pretty eyes filled with tears when, in spite of the official bulletins of succe
ss and victory, faint rumors reached France of the miseries the great army had endured from fatigue, famine and sickness! And how the color glowed in her softly-rounded cheek when the so-called “glorious victory” of Borodino filled the public ear with delight! What was it to Julie that thousands had fallen on either side? Those in whom St. Bignold was interested were safe. Those? Nay, it was easy to see that Julie thought only of one. He was safe! But who was that he? The Comté de l’Orme?

  The good news caused excitement even in Madame de l’Orme’s cold bosom; and when the dignitaries of St. Bignold requested her to preside at a grand ball to be given in honour of the great event, she graciously acceded to their wishes, and for once, forsaking her usual habits of seclusion, appeared at the ball in a splendid dress and wearing her most magnificent jewels. More than this, she gave Julie permission to attend the civic ball which was to take place the succeeding evening at the Hotel de Ville, in celebration of the same great victory. Julie was charmed at the thought of going. “She had never been at a public ball before,” she told Madeline, “and had not danced, actually not danced since—since monsieur left the chateau. But at this ball she should dance, and with a light heart too, for there would be no more battles, or famine, or misery now, would there? The road to Moscow was open, people said; the false Russians were already at our Emperor’s feet, and so the army must return very soon. Ah yes! she should enjoy the ball so much!”

  Such was Julie’s confidence to her only friend, as, after madame’s departure for the ball, she lingered a moment on the threshold of the heavy door of division ere closing it between herself and the outer world till her mistress’s return.

  Poor Julie! On the very night on which she had promised herself so much enjoyment she sat alone in a prison cell, accused of murdering her benefactress, and without the slightest hope of clearing herself from the imputation.

  Chapter II

  “Oh that I had one friend, one counselor in my great need!” she exclaimed in the bitterness of her sorrow; “but I have none, not one. Would to God I had been the victim and not madame! It would have been a moment’s pang and then peace. But this hopeless waiting—this shameful death! And Louis, even Louis will never know that I die innocent!”

  This last thought was agony indeed. “Louis to believe her guilty of such a crime!” and burying her face in her clasped hands, she wept as if her heart were breaking.

  A touch of the shoulder and the sound of a familiar voice roused her from her stupor of grief, and glancing up with a startled air at the speaker, she recognized the old priest who had known her from childhood.

  “Take comfort, my daughter,” he said, “and trust in God to help you. Remember that though a mother may forget her child, He never forsakes those who trust in Him.”

  Julie sank at the feet of the good old man.

  “Oh mon père, I thank you for those blessed words. And yet there is so much against me that—that though God may know my innocence, and you also may believe it, those stern judges will not.”

  “Calm yourself, my child, and tell me how it all happened. I will do what I can to help you to prove your innocence, but to be able to do this you must have no concealments from me.”

  “Indeed, I shall tell you everything, for I have no real crime to confess, mon père, only one little fault; but oh! What misery that has brought!” and sobs checked her utterance.

  The good old priest allowed her emotion to have its way for a time, and when she regained her composure she told him the whole truth.

  After leaving Madeline and carefully closing the door of communication between herself and the under part of the house, Julie had re-entered the comtesse’s apartment and availed herself of the few hours of leisure afforded by her absence to put the finishing touches to the simple white muslin dress she intended to wear at the civic ball. When the dress was complete an allowable vanity induced her to try it on; and as she marked the graceful folds in which it fell round her really elegant figure, the thought occurred to her that, perhaps, a very few weeks only might elapse before she should again wear a white dress along with her couronne de mariée, and should kneel with Louis before the altar in the dear old chapel at beautiful de l’Orme.

  “With Louis, my daughter?” said Father Sylvester, interrupting the naive relation.

  “Ah, mon père, you must remember Louis, monsieur’s own valet?” she said, quickly. “You cannot have forgotten my Louis? As children, we were always together, and afterwards we used to dance together on fete days. When he left de l’Orme with monsieur I thought my heart would break; but we both knew he ought to go, and he went.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember.”

  “I knew you could not forget him!” She said, with eagerness. “He came back to see me, you know, one little hour before he went with monsieur to that terrible Russia: and since then he has written once or twice to poor Julie. It was not wrong to receive his letters, was it, mon père?” and she raised her pleading dovelike eyes to the old man’s face.

  “No, my daughter,” he answered, gently, as he laid his tremulous hand on her head. “Go on. You thought of Louis and your bridal dress?”

  “Yes. But by-and-by more sinful thoughts came into my mind; for my eyes chancing to fall on a beautiful cachemire madame had worn in the morning, I wondered how Louis would like to see such a pretty thing on my shoulders, and then I put it on to see how it would suit my white dress; and it looked so lovely that I turned from one mirror to another to admire myself in it. And then I—I began to wish I were a rich lady, and could wear cachemires every day. And when once that thought took possession of me I went on. I took the earrings madame had taken out when she made her grande toilette, and fastened them in my ears; I hung her gold chain round my neck and clasped her bracelets round my wrists; and at the sight of every new ornament the wicked thought of longing to be a lady got more and more hold of me, till at last I laughed aloud at my delight. The sound seemed to echo on the stillness of the room, and I almost believed that it was not my own voice alone that had so strange an effect upon me. I shuddered, I knew not why, and at last worked myself up to such a pitch of terror, that, as I glanced uneasily at the mirror before me, I almost fancied that I saw a man’s face peering at me from between the closed curtains of the window behind me. I shudder still when I think how terrified I felt when I remembered how lonely and unprotected I was. But the very excess of my terror checked my screams, and I stood quite still before the mirror, trying to convince myself that the momentary glimpse of that face was only a phantom raised up by my conscience to punish my vanity. And by-and-by I began to recollect how impossible it was that anyone could gain access to the room, whose only entrance was through my own chamber, which was only reached from the staircase with that heavy iron-bound door always kept so carefully fastened. And as to the windows, they were forty or fifty feet from the ground. As I reflected thus, my fears became quieted, and hastily unfastening the chain and bracelets, I replaced them in the trinket drawer. I then took off the cachemire, folded it carefully, and put it away, that I might no longer have my thoughts engrossed by its lovely color. And when this was done, I changed my dress and took up the embroidery madame had left me to finish. There was one thing, however, which I quite forgot—the earrings! It was pure forgetfulness, mon père, leaving them in my ears, but they will not believe that it was so, and they found them there, and that you know was greatly against me.” She paused a moment and then continued her history.

  “Perhaps it was because these fatal rings were still in my ears; perhaps, that I had real cause for my terror; but, in spite of every effort, I could not keep my thoughts quiet as I sat at my work. The mirrors seemed to reflect and reflect again the light of my little lamp as I had never seen them do before; strange ghostly lights and shadows appeared to flit through the room, and whenever I chanced to look up, I was haunted by the dread of again seeing the face I had imagined peering behind the window-curtains. At last, I could endure the uncertainty of no longer, and I force
d myself to look behind every curtain in the room. It was very difficult to gain the necessary courage, but I did it, and found nothing—nothing; nothing but thick darkness.”

  “And then, my child?”

  “Ah! then madame came home very tired and very—” she paused, then added ingenuously, “People are often a little irritable when they are tired, and madame complained that I hurt her in arranging her hair for the night; and perhaps I did, for I was very sleepy. But, thank God! She said ‘Goodnight, God bless you, my child!’ before I left her. That is such a comfort to me now!”

  The rest of the story was more briefly told. Julie slept late the morning after the ball, and when she awoke she was surprised to find that the door of communication between her room and that of her mistress was still closed. Madame de l’Orme was in the habit of bolting it every night after Julie left her, but by an ingenious mechanical contrivance could, when she wished it, withdraw the bolt without rising from bed, and in the morning it was generally unfastened. When this was not the case a single tap at the door was enough to break the light sleep of the comtesse. But today it was not so. Again and again Julie repeated the summons without receiving an answer. Ten o’clock struck, half-past ten, and there was no sound in the chamber. Eleven came, and Julie, alarmed at the length of her mistress’s slumbers, determined on a desperate step to relieve her anxiety: She could obtain no assistance from without, for the key of the staircase door was in her mistress’s possession. She was therefore a prisoner in her own room, from which there was but one mode of egress, and that so perilous that only her present circumstances could have induced her to attempt it.