Miraculous Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Who was Lilian Hope, and what exactly are these murders you speak of?’

  The questioner was Otisse—Henri Otisse, the explorer, who had just returned from the upper reaches of the Amazon. His small, dark head and yellow, sun-scorched face were turned inquiringly around, and immediately a storm of verbal explanation broke out from the assembled diners.

  Through all this buzzing, Lady Groombridge’s resolute voice boomed out, and dispersed the others as a motor-horn scatters a flock of roadside chickens.

  ‘My dear Mr. Otisse,’ she exclaimed, ‘you are probably the only man in England who doesn’t know the whole pitiable story. Poor Lilian Hope was once one of our famous English beauties. She was a musical comedy singer, and though her voice was not really fine, her loveliness made one forget that. She was one of the first to have a picture postcard vogue, though she must have been nearly forty at that time. People would wait hours to see her get into her carriage, she was so popular. She had many exalted friends and walked with kings, and yet at the end she disappeared into obscurity and direst poverty. Some say she sold flowers in Piccadilly. It is true that she died in a miserable garret, where she had lived for years under another name.’

  ‘But her diary?’ asked Otisse, pulling at his small dark moustache. ‘This diary that they call in the journals the “Diary of Death”—how did she come to write that, and to whom did she leave it?’

  ‘That is the mystery,’ announced Lady Groombridge. ‘Lilian Hope died in such obscurity that it has been impossible so far to trace the few miserable possessions that she left behind. In her last years she apparently kept a diary in which she poured out vindictive and bitter accusations against her former friends. She stated that these friends had abandoned her, scorned her, refused her the slightest assistance.

  ‘Of course, the poor woman was beside herself with illness and want. Her friends would have helped her if they had known where she was. Lilian Hope’s wild accusations were without foundation, but they have resulted in terrible consequences. Somehow, her diary has come into the possession of an avenger, a man—if it is a man—more insane than poor Lilian Hope ever was.’

  Henri Otisse nodded quickly.

  ‘I read a little in the journals,’ he said. ‘Someone has already killed two of these people said to have refused aid to Lilian Hope, n’est-ce pas?’

  Lady Groombridge sipped her wine and glared at her attentive guests.

  ‘Yes. Already two worthy and respectable people have been struck down by this unknown madman. Two have been killed in three months. Dr. Stapleton Clarke, a fine old man and a real philanthropist, was found shot in his study, and beside him was a page torn from Lilian Hope’s diary; a page in which she accused the poor man, in the wildest language, of callous indifference to her sufferings, and refusal to give her financial assistance. As though the old doctor would refuse anyone help, least of all a woman with whom he had once been upon terms of friendship! The writing found beside that old man’s body was hysterical and insane.

  ‘The same thing applies to the murder of poor old Isidore Gorden. He was for years the manager of the Beaumont Theatre, and a kinder man never lived, yet he was found stabbed in the garden of his house at Maidenhead, and an equally hysterical accusation, torn from the fatal diary, lay upon his body. Apparently, too, Gorden had received pages of the “Death Diary”—as the papers call it—several times before he died. Undoubtedly they were sent by the murderer to his victim, and they were enclosed in common envelopes addressed with a typewriter.’

  ‘And others are threatened?’ asked Otisse. ‘Has this mad avenger sent other diary pages to fresh victims?’

  ‘One can’t tell,’ replied his hostess. ‘Dr. Stapleton Clarke probably received pages of the diary, and it is thought he destroyed them without telling anyone about it. Lilian Hope had many friends, and she may have ranted against all of them. It is terrible. There is no knowing who may be the next victim.’

  ‘So far there have only been two murders,’ broke in one of the women guests. ‘And both have been committed in the last three months. The police have a theory that Lilian Hope’s diary has somehow fallen into the hands of an old lover of hers, and this man is carrying out a vendetta. They think that either this murderer has only recently acquired the “Death Diary” or else that he has had it ever since Lilian Hope’s death, and that he has recently gone out of his mind. You see, only a madman would take this hysterical diary so seriously.’

  Otisse demurred slightly.

  ‘Surely a man who loved this unfortunate woman might well believe that her diary spoke the truth?’ he suggested.

  ‘Not if the man read the diary in the light of reason and common sense,’ said Loreto Santos. ‘The diary pages found in poor Gorden’s desk were the outpourings of a pathological subject. These writings of Lilian Hope have been submitted to alienists and handwriting experts, and all the authorities are agreed that the poor woman was insane. The reputation of the murdered men was of the highest, and Lilian Hope, if she had been in her right mind, would never have accused her friends as she did. This murderer, of course, is mad.’

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Lady Groombridge. ‘The whole thing is a terrible tragedy. One wonders who will be next upon this mad creature’s list. There is Sir George Frame, who is joining our party to-night—he couldn’t arrive in time for dinner—now, who knows, he may be a future victim. Poor old man, he is seventy-two years of age, but he was a close friend of Lilian Hope.’

  ***

  Presently the long formal dinner was at an end, and Lady Groombridge rose from the table, carrying the women with her. In the billiard-room the men lit their cigars, and Loreto looked about him curiously. Lady Groombridge was a resolute hunter of London’s ‘lions’, and the guests were an interesting crowd.

  There was Lionel Silk, poet and author of White Heat, which had been publicly burned in America, and now cost fourteen guineas a volume. He was a slim, mild-looking man, with a bald circle in the midst of his fair hair, and a round schoolboy’s face that suggested arrested development. He looked out at the world through sleepy, lowered eyelids, and a scarlet cigarette-holder nine inches long jutted defiantly from his mouth.

  Otisse, the explorer, was telling stories about China and South America to a group of men, all more or less famous or notorious. One of these was a singer named Adam Steele, ‘boomed’ in the newspapers recently as the ‘Australian Caruso’. Steele was a large, bounding, energetic man, broad-shouldered and full of vitality. He had a very beautiful voice, and later, no doubt, he would be expected to sing. Lady Groombridge did not invite her guests for nothing.

  Steele strolled across the room and seated himself beside Loreto. The singer had some music in his hands, and he turned to Loreto with a pleasant smile.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to sing later on,’ he confided, with a humorous grin. ‘I’m engaged like the extra waiters and the other hirelings. I wonder whether you would mind very much playing some accompaniments for me, Santos? I know you’re a big solo pianist, but the fact is my regular accompanist is ill. Lady Groombridge suggested that you might—’

  ‘That lady’s word is law,’ said Loreto, smiling. ‘Of course, I don’t claim to be an accompanist, and I’m not a very good reader. What have you got there? German Lieder—h’m! Brahms—he’s a bit tricky.’

  He took the music and turned the pages quickly.

  ‘Well, I think I can manage this for you all right.’

  Steele thanked the other in his quick, impulsive way, and soon the two men were deep in a musical discussion. Loreto’s voice was soft and gravely deliberate; Steele talked excitedly, with animated gesture.

  Later, when they rejoined the women, Steele sang and Loreto played indefatigably. Not only did he play the singer’s accompaniments, but he played numerous solos, and was glad afterwards to slip away to a corner of the big room for a quiet cigarette and a rest.


  His sister Cleta, who had quite a nice drawing-room voice, exquisitely trained, sang some songs of old Spain, while Loreto listened appreciatively. He was sorry when the girl had finished, and Lionel Silk began to recite—or, rather, chant—some fragments from White Heat.

  Seizing a favourable moment, Loreto slipped out and stole along a passage to a cool and empty smoking-room that adjoined the billiard-room.

  ***

  He had just lit a fresh cigarette when a very tall old man, with white hair and a scholarly stoop, peered in through the doorway and then entered.

  ‘Hullo!’ said the old man, genially. ‘It’s Santos, isn’t it? Loreto Santos? Thought it was. My name’s Frame. Politician, you know.’

  He seated himself opposite to Loreto and continued in the same snappy, unconventional fashion.

  ‘Couldn’t stand that Silk fellow; slipped out after you. Calls that stuff poetry! Gad! He ought to have been burnt along with his beastly books. Rotten stuff, Santos.’

  With fingers that shook ever so slightly he drew out a cigar-case, whilst Loreto looked at him curiously.

  At seventy-two years of age, Sir George Frame had a fine old face, that still retained traces of an extremely handsome youth. The spluttering match threw a glow about the high and broad forehead, the grey eyes, still keen despite the innumerable fine lines about them, and the firm, well-shaped mouth. Looking at the old man’s kindly and dignified face, Loreto understood the other’s popularity in the House, his reputation for shrewd statesmanship and vision.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Sir George,’ he said, with perfect honesty. ‘I fancy that you are rather more than a mere politician.’

  The old man shrugged and dropped his extinguished match into an ash-tray.

  ‘I’ve tried hard,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried hard. But the number of fools are infinite, as old Carlyle said. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. You play the piano jolly well, Santos, but the musical number for me is “Nunc dimittis”. I’ve had a full life. No regrets. Seventy-three next June, but I’ll never reach it. Shut the door, my boy, will you?’

  A little surprised at the abruptness of the request, Loreto nevertheless rose and closed the smoke-room door securely. When he returned to his seat he noticed that Sir George Frame had moved his chair forward until it was much nearer to that of Loreto.

  ‘Particularly wanted to have a talk with you, Santos,’ the old man resumed. ‘Followed your career in the papers, and read your views on crime frustration. Papers got your views wrong, of course, but I understand. You’re quite right. Modern society is the greatest criminal of all. Distribution of wealth notoriously unjust. So-called “justice” a mockery. Organised society makes criminals by the hundred, and then revenges itself upon them—if they’re poor. Big thieves get off and get honours. All wrong. Prevention of crime is the great thing—not punishment.’

  He paused for a moment, and looked at the firm ash on his cigar.

  ‘I’m particularly interested in the prevention of crime,’ he said, slowly, and in a different tone. ‘Perhaps you can guess why, Santos?’

  His eyes were lifted meaningly to his listener’s face, and in a flash Loreto understood.

  ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘You were a friend of Lilian Hope! You have not been threatened by—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir George, grimly. ‘I am the next on the list.’

  He drew a fairly large envelope from his breast pocket and extracted some folded papers. They were dingy and faintly yellow; one edge of the paper was jagged where it had been torn from the book, and Loreto immediately recognised these sheets as pages from Lilian Hope’s fatal diary.

  ‘Poor Lilian!’ murmured the old man. ‘She was a wonderful creature, and I loved her once, though she never treated me too well. I had her picture—kept it for years, but my wife grew jealous. Poor Lilian! To think that she was in such poverty, and that she died in such a frame of mind!’

  There was silence in the room for a moment. The old man’s cigar had gone out, and he threw it away and fumbled for another. Loreto examined the all-too-human documents in his hand.

  ‘She did once appeal to me for money, Santos,’ went on the old man. ‘She never gave me her address, or told me how badly she was situated. She asked me to send her money to the poste restante in a big seaside resort. I wrote a letter enclosing money and asking her to let me know if she wanted more. I had no answer. I only learned a year later that my wife had intercepted the letter, and Lilian never received anything.’

  He sighed faintly and dropped his second cigar into the empty grate.

  ‘Life’s a queer thing. Mixture of comic and tragic. Poor Kitty, my wife, was always jealous, and now she’d give a great deal never to have destroyed my letter. I never heard from Lilian again; could never get in touch with her. And now there comes this bolt from the blue—this poor lunatic avenging wrongs that are purely imaginary. One poor mad soul driven on by another who is dead.’

  Loreto nodded gravely.

  ‘It is horrible and pitiably tragic,’ he said. ‘I hope you are taking precautions, Sir George?’

  The old man chuckled in grim humour.

  ‘Precautions? What—me? My dear Santos, you don’t know me. I’m incapable of such a thing. I’m so absent-minded, I lose glasses, umbrellas, books—anything I happen to be carrying. I can’t even keep a good cigar alight. I get in wrong trains, forget to post letters, and once I delivered the wrong speech to the wrong set of people. I could never think of precautions. Besides, this sort of thing doesn’t worry me. I’ve had a full life, and I’ve had enough.

  ‘So far from frightening me, Santos, death appears as a rather pleasant thing. It means rest—utter rest. No, I’ve lived enough. If this madman wants to get me, he’ll get me.’

  ‘Still—’ began Loreto, but he was interrupted.

  ‘He’ll get me,’ repeated Sir George. ‘He’s mad and cunning, and he’s not a regular criminal. That’s why the police are helpless. You know what police methods are. They can only catch the regulars. Police know all the regulars—got ’em tabbed—know their methods. Crime committed, and the regular must account for himself at the time of the crime. Then their women and pals squeal to the police. But all that sort of thing is no good against a man like this. He’s not a regular; he’s got no pals. There’s no motive and no clue. He’s mad, as Jack the Ripper was, and the police never caught Jack.’

  ‘But if the police were warned?’ suggested Loreto. ‘If you showed them these diary pages at once—’

  The old man shook his head obstinately.

  ‘Don’t believe in the police,’ he barked. ‘And I don’t want them fussing about me. Matter of fact, Santos, I’m telling you all this in confidence. And I have a favour to ask you.’

  His tone had altered again, and was far more serious than it had been before. A wistful note crept into his voice.

  ‘I’d like you to take up this case,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to try and prevent this poor devil committing more insane crimes. In particular, I would like you to protect my poor wife.’

  For a moment Loreto wondered whether he had heard aright.

  ‘Your wife?’ he echoed. ‘Do you mean that your wife, too, is threatened?’

  Sir George nodded gravely.

  ‘Lilian hated poor Kitty more than anyone else. She has received pages from the diary that make terrible reading. The thing has knocked Kitty out. Her nerves have gone to bits, and she’s in a nursing home now, at Cranbridge, near Oxsfoot. This murderer has made a definite threat, too. He says he will kill me first, and Kitty will die within a week of my decease. We had a typewritten note to that effect.

  ‘As I’ve said, I don’t care for myself, but I do for Kitty. I’ve got nurses watching her day and night, and detectives outside, round the nursing home. But this fellow is so cunning. I don’t trust the ordinary policeman, Santos, or ordinary
police methods. I wonder if you’d look after Kitty for me?’

  There was something in the old man’s face and voice—something very simple and pathetic—that touched Loreto, accustomed as he was to this world’s sorrows.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, slowly, ‘I’ll take the thing on, Sir George, and I promise to do my best to stop this madman and put him under restraint. The thing should be comparatively easy now that we are warned in advance.’

  Sir George rose to his feet and held out his hand to the younger man.

  ‘You’re a good fellow, Santos,’ he observed. ‘If anyone can catch this murderer, you can, but I don’t think it will be easy. In any case, thanks ever so much for taking the job on. Now I must go and say a kind word to Flora Groombridge. She’ll scold me for leaving her so long.’

  Loreto pressed the long, thin hand gently.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said, earnestly. ‘I’ll arrange, to-morrow, to have you looked after properly. In the meantime, be careful of strangers, and lock your bedroom door at night.’

  The old man chuckled.

  ‘I’ll ask Flora to mount guard over me,’ he said. ‘She’d drive off fifty assassins.’

  ***

  Back in the drawing-room the house-party were beginning to think of bed. Loreto talked for a time to his sister, and then she bade him good night. Most of the men were taking a final whisky-and-soda before departing, but Adam Steele was playing the fool like a big schoolboy, and trying to perform some trick with a couple of chairs, despite Lady Groombridge’s frigid stare. Around him stood some of the younger women, laughing loudly, and Lionel Silk was urging the Australian to further efforts.

  Sir George Frame spoke for a time to his hostess, and was introduced to Otisse. The two men began to discuss Brazil, and the Frenchman offered to lend the other a book on that country.

  Gradually the big room emptied as one by one the guests went up to bed. Acting upon impulse, Loreto went to Sir George Frame’s bedroom. The baronet had one of the best bedrooms in the house, situated upon the first floor, and he looked rather surprised when he opened the door to Loreto.