Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  I AM a lawyer by profession, and have a snug set of chambers in Chancery Lane. My name is Charles Pleydell. I have many clients, and can already pronounce myself a rich man.

  On a certain morning towards the end of September in the year 1897 I received the following letter:—

  Sir,

  I have been asked to call on you by a mutual friend, General Cornwallis, who accompanied my step-daughter and myself on board the Osprey to England. Availing myself of the General’s introduction, I hope to call to see you or to send a representative about eleven o’clock today.

  The General says that he thinks you can give me advice on a matter of some importance.

  I am a Spanish lady. My home is in Brazil, and I know nothing of England or of English ways. I wish, however, to take a house near London and to settle down. This house must be situated in the neighborhood of a large moor or common. It must have grounds surrounding it, and must have extensive cellars or basements, as my wish is to furnish a laboratory in order to carry on scientific research. I am willing to pay any sum in reason for a desirable habitation, but one thing is essential: the house must be as near London as is possible under the above conditions.

  Yours obediently,

  Stella Scaiffe.

  This letter was dated from the Carlton Hotel.

  Now, it so happened that a client of mine had asked me a few months before to try and let his house—an old-fashioned and somewhat gruesome mansion, situated on a lonely part of Hampstead Heath. It occurred to me that this house would exactly suit the lady whose letter I had just read.

  At eleven o’clock one of my clerks brought me in a card. On it were written the words, “Miss Muriel Scaiffe.” I desired the man to show the lady in, and a moment later a slight, fair-haired English girl entered the room.

  “Mrs. Scaiffe is not quite well and has sent me in her stead.

  You have received a letter from my step-mother, have you not, Mr. Pleydell?”

  “I have,” I replied. “Will you sit down, Miss Scaiffe?”

  She did so. I looked at her attentively. She was young and pretty. She also looked good, and although there was a certain anxiety about her face which she could not quite repress, her smile was very sweet.

  “Your step-mother,” I said, “requires a house with somewhat peculiar conditions?”

  “Oh, yes,” the girl answered. “She is very anxious on the subject. We want to be settled within a week.”

  “That is a very short time in which to take and furnish a house,” I could not help remarking.

  “Yes,” she said, again. “But, all the same, in our case it is essential. My step-mother says that anything can be done if there is enough money.”

  “That is true in a sense,” I replied, smilingly. “If I can help you I shall be pleased. You want a house on a common?”

  “On a common or moor.”

  “It so happens, Miss Scaiffe, that there is a place called The Rosary at Hampstead which may suit you. Here are the particulars. Read them over for yourself and tell me if there is any use in my giving you an order to view.”

  She read the description eagerly, then she said:—

  “I am sure Mrs. Scaiffe would like to see this house. When can we go?”

  “To-day, if you like, and if you particularly wish it I can meet you at The Rosary at three o’clock.”

  “That will do nicely,” she answered.

  Soon afterwards she left me.

  The rest of the morning passed as usual, and at the appointed hour I presented myself at the gates of The Rosary. A carriage was already drawn up there, and as I approached a tall lady with very dark eyes stepped out of it.

  A glance showed me that the young lady had not accompanied her.

  “You are Mr. Pleydell?” she said, holding out her hand to me, and speaking in excellent English.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “You saw my step-daughter this morning?”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  “I have called to see the house,” she continued. “Muriel tells me that it is likely to suit my requirements. Will you show it to me?”

  I opened the gates, and we entered a wide carriage-drive. The Rosary had been unlet for some months, and weeds partly covered the avenue. The grounds had a desolate and gloomy appearance, leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and altogether the entire place looked undesirable and neglected.

  The Spanish lady, however, seemed delighted with everything. She looked around her with sparkling glances. Flashing her dark eyes into my face, she praised the trees and avenue, the house, and all that the house contained.

  She remarked that the rooms were spacious, the lobbies wide; above all things, the cellars numerous.

  “I am particular about the cellars, Mr. Pleydell,” she said.

  “Indeed!” I answered. “At all events, there are plenty of them.”

  “Oh, yes! And this one is so large. It will quite suit our purpose. We will turn it into a laboratory.

  “My brother and I—Oh, I have not told you about my brother. He is a Spaniard—Senor Merello—he joins us here next week. He and I are scientists, and I hope scientists of no mean order. We have come to England for the purpose of experimenting. In this land of the free we can do what we please. We feel, Mr. Pleydell—you look so sympathizing that I cannot help confiding in you—we feel that we are on the verge of a very great—a very astounding discovery, at which the world, yes, the whole world will wonder. This house is the one of all others for our purpose. When can we take possession, Mr. Pleydell?”

  I asked several questions, which were all answered to my satisfaction, and finally returned to town, prepared to draw up a lease by which the house and grounds known as The Rosary, Hampstead Heath, were to be handed over at a very high rent to Mrs. Scaiffe.

  I felt pleased at the good stroke of business which I had done for a client, and had no apprehensions of any sort. Little did I guess what that afternoon’s work would mean to me, and still more to one whom I had ever been proud to call my greatest friend.

  Everything went off without a hitch. The Rosary passed into the hands of Mrs. Scaiffe, and also into the hands of her brother, Senor Merello, a tall, dark, very handsome man, bearing all over him the well-known characteristics of a Spanish don.

  A week or two went by and the affair had well-nigh passed my memory, when one afternoon I heard eager, excited words in my clerks’ room, and the next moment my head clerk entered, followed by the fair-haired English-looking girl who had called herself Muriel Scaiffe.

  “I want to speak to you, Mr. Pleydell,” she said, in great agitation. “Can I see you alone, and at once?”

  “Certainly,” I answered. I motioned to the clerk to leave us and helped the young lady to a chair.

  “I cannot stay a moment,” she began. “Even now I am followed. Mr. Pleydell, he has told me that he knows you; it was on that account I persuaded my step-mother to come to you about a house. You are his greatest friend, for he has said it.”

  “Of whom are you talking?” I asked, in a bewildered tone.

  “Of Oscar Digby!” she replied. “The great traveler, the great discoverer, the greatest, most single-minded, the grandest man of his age. You know him? Yes—yes.”

  She paused for breath. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “Indeed, I do know him,” I answered. “He is my very oldest friend. Where is he? What is he doing? Tell me all about him.”

  She had risen. Her hands were clasped tightly together, her face was white as death.

  “He is on his way to England,” she answered. “Even now he may have landed. He brings great news, and the moment he sets foot in London he is in danger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot tell you what I mean. I dare not. He is your friend, and it is your province to save him.”

  “But from what, Miss Scaiffe? You have no right to come here and make ambiguous statements. If you come to me at all you ought to be more explicit.”


  She trembled and now, as though she could not stand any longer, dropped into a chair.

  “I am not brave enough to explain things more fully,” she said. “I can only repeat my words, ‘Your friend is in danger.’ Tell him—if you can, if you will—to have nothing to do with us. Keep him, at all risks, away from us. If he mentions us pretend that you do not know anything about us. I would not speak like this if I had not cause—the gravest. When we took The Rosary I did not believe that matters were so awful; indeed, then I was unaware that Mr. Digby was returning to London. But last night I overheard. . . . Oh! Mr. Pleydell, I can tell you no more. Pity me and do not question me. Keep Oscar Digby away from The Rosary and, if possible, do not betray me; but if in no other way you can insure his leaving us alone, tell him that I—yes, I, Muriel Scaiffe—wish it. There, I cannot do more.”

  She was trembling more terribly than ever. She took out her handkerchief to wipe the moisture from her brow.

  “I must fly,” she said. “If this visit is discovered my life is worth very little.”

  After she had gone I sat in absolute amazement. My first sensation was that the girl must be mad. Her pallor, her trembling, her vague innuendoes pointed surely to a condition of nerves the reverse of sane. But although the madness of Muriel Scaiffe seemed the most possible solution of her strange visit, I could not cast the thing from my memory. I felt almost needlessly disturbed by it. All day her extraordinary words haunted me, and when, on the next day, Digby, whom I had not seen for years, unexpectedly called, I remembered Miss Scaiffe’s visit with a queer and ever-increasing sense of apprehension.

  Digby had been away from London for several years. Before he went he and I had shared the same rooms, had gone about together, and had been chums in the fullest sense of the word. It was delightful to see him once again. His hearty, loud laugh fell refreshingly on my ears, and one or two glances into his face removed my fears. After all, it was impossible to associate danger with one so big, so burly, with such immense physical strength. His broad forehead, his keen, frank blue eyes, his smiling mouth, his strong and muscular hands, all denoted strength of mind and body. He looked as if he were muscle all over.

  “Well,” he said, “here I am, and I have a good deal to tell you. I want your help also, old man. It is your business to introduce me to the most promising and most enterprising financier of the day. I have it in my power, Pleydell, to make his fortune, and yours, and my own, and half-a-dozen other peoples as well.”

  “Tell me all about it,” I said. I sat back in my chair, prepared to enjoy myself.

  Oscar was a very noted traveler and thought much of by the Geographical Society.

  He came nearer to me and dropped his voice a trifle.

  “I have made an amazing discovery,” he said, “and that is one reason why I have hurried back to London. I do not know whether you are sufficiently conversant with extraordinary and out-of-the-way places on our globe. But anyhow, I may as well tell you that there is a wonderful region, as yet very little known, which lies on the watershed on the Essequibo and Amazon rivers. In that region are situated the old Montes de Cristes or Crystal Mountains, the disputed boundary between British Guiana and Brazil. There also, according to the legend, was supposed to be the wonderful lost city of Manos. Many expeditions were sent out to discover it in the seventeenth century, and it was the Eldorado of Sir Walter Raleigh s famous expedition in 1615, the failure of which cost him his head.”

  I could not help laughing.

  “This sounds like an old geography lesson. What have you to do with this terra incognita?”

  He leant forward and dropped his voice.

  “Do not think me mad,” he said, “for I speak in all sanity. I have found the lost Eldorado!”

  “Nonsense!” I cried.

  “It is true. I do not mean to say that I have found the mythical city of gold; that, of course, does not exist. But what I have discovered is a spot close to Lake Amacu that is simply laden with gold. The estimates computed on my specimens and reports make it out to be the richest place in the world. The whole thing is, as yet, a close secret, and I have come to London now to put it into the hands of a big financier. A company must be formed with a capital of something like ten millions to work it.”

  “By Jove!” I cried. “You astonish me.”

  “The thing will create an enormous sensation,” he went on, “and I shall be a millionaire ; that is, if the secret does not leak out.”

  “The secret,” I cried.

  “Yes, the secret of its exact locality.”

  “Have you charts?”

  “Yes; but those I would rather not disclose, even to you, old man, just yet.”

  I was silent for a moment, then I said:—

  “Horace Lancaster is the biggest financier in the whole of London. He is undoubtedly your man. If you can satisfy him with your reports, charts, and specimens he can float the company. You must see him, Digby.”

  “Yes, that is what I want,” he cried.

  “I will telephone to his office at once.”

  I rang the bell for my clerk and gave him directions.

  He left the room. In a few moments he returned with the information that Lancaster was in Paris.

  “He won’t be back for a week, sir,” said the clerk.

  He left the room, and I looked at Digby.

  “Are you prepared to wait?” I asked.

  He shrugged his great shoulders.

  “I must, I suppose,” he said. “But it is provoking. At any moment another may forestall me. Not that it is likely; but there is always the possibility. Shall we talk over matters tonight, Pleydell? Will you dine with me at my club?”

  “With a heart and a half,” I answered.

  “By the way,” continued Digby, “some friends of mine—Brazilians—ought to be in London now: a lady of the name of Scaiffe, with her pretty little step-daughter, an English girl. I should like to introduce you to them. They are remarkably nice people. I had a letter from Mrs. Scaiffe just as I was leaving Brazil telling me that they were en route for England and asking me to look her up in town. I wonder where they are? Her brother, too, Senor Merello, is a most charming man. Why, Pleydell, what is the matter?”

  I was silent for a moment: then I said: “If I were you I would have nothing to do with these people. I happen to know their whereabouts, and—”

  “Well?’’ he said, opening his eyes in amazement?

  “The little girl does not want you to call on them, Digby. Take her advice. She looked true and good.” To my astonishment I saw that the big fellow seemed quite upset at my remarks.

  “True!” he said, beginning to pace the room. “Of course the little thing is true. I tell you, Pleydell, I am fond of her. Not engaged, or anything of that sort, but I like her. I was looking forward to meeting them. The mother—the step-mother, I mean—is a magnificent woman. I am great friends with her. I was staying at their Quinta last winter. I also know the brother, Senor Merello. Has little Muriel lost her head?”

  “She is anxious and frightened. The whole thing seems absurd, of course, but she certainly did beg of me to keep you away from her step-mother, and I half promised to respect her secret and not to tell you the name of the locality where Mrs. Scaiffe and Senor Merello are at present living.”

  He tried not to look annoyed, but he evidently was so. A few moments later he left me.

  That evening Digby and I dined together. We afterwards went exhaustively into the great subject of his discovery. He showed me his specimens and reports, and, in short, so completely fired my enthusiasm that I was all impatience for Lancaster’s return. The thing was a big thing, one worth fighting for. We said no more about Mrs. Scaiffe, and I hoped that my friend would not fall into the hands of a woman who, I began to fear, was little better than an adventuress.

  Three or four days passed. Lancaster was still detained in Paris, and Digby was evidently eating his heart out with impatience at the unavoidable delay in ge
tting his great scheme floated.

  One afternoon he burst noisily into my presence.

  “Well,” he cried. “The little girl has discovered herself. Talk of women and their pranks! She came to see me at my hotel. She declared that she could not keep away. I just took the little thing in my arms, and hugged her. We are going to have a honeymoon when the company is floated, and this evening, Pleydell, I dine at The Rosary. Ha! ha! my friend. I know all about the secret retreat of the Scaiffes by this time. Little Muriel told me herself. I dine there tonight, and they want you to come, too.”

  I was about to refuse when, as if in a vision, the strange, entreating, suffering face of Muriel Scaiffe, as I had seen it the day she implored me to save my friend, rose up before my eyes. Whatever her present inexplicable conduct might mean, I would go with Digby tonight.

  We arrived at The Rosary between seven and eight o’clock. Mrs. Scaiffe received us in Oriental splendor. Her dress was a wonder of magnificence. Diamonds flashed in her raven black hair and glittered round her shapely neck. She was certainly one of the most splendid-looking women I had ever seen, and Digby was not many moments in her company before he was completely subjugated by her charms.

  The pale little Muriel looked washed-out and insignificant beside this gorgeous creature. Senor Merello was a masculine edition of his handsome sister: his presence and her wonderful courtly grace of manner seemed but to enhance and accentuate her charms.