by Tom Holland
‘On your neck,’ he replied, ‘I noticed a couple of blemishes which seemed to me very like mosquito bites. I have often observed that such bites, if they were ever once septic, will endure as faint marks on the skin for a couple of years. Obviously, if my diagnosis had been correct you would at some stage have had to have been abroad. India I guessed because of your necklace and earrings. They are of a very distinctively Indian make; I would not have thought that such jewellery was common here in England.’
‘Hearing such an explanation,’ I replied, ‘I almost feel that I should have been abroad. However my life, I am afraid, has been far too mundane for that. The blemishes you noticed are merely an allergy to the filthy London air.’
‘You were brought up away from the metropolis, then?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘near Whitby, in Yorkshire. I spent my first twenty-two years there, and have only been in London since my marriage to George some eighteen months ago.’
‘I see.’ He was studying the marks on my neck again, and frowning. I trusted that he was not too mortified. ‘And the jewellery?’ he asked at length.
I reached up to touch my necklace. You have surely seen it, dear Lucy? – the most beautiful thing, formed of wondrously crafted droplets of gold, but of a value to me far greater than its price. ‘The jewels were given to me,’ I said, ‘by my dearest George.’
‘A wedding present, perhaps?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied, ‘they were a birthday gift.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I saw them in the window of a shop. I was on George’s arm at the time and he must have remembered my enthusiasm.’
‘How perfectly charming.’
I realised, of course, that I was boring him. His eyes were hooding over once again, and I was afraid that I would lose the advantage I had gained when I persuaded him to offer those other deductions which proved so remarkably exact. ‘The previous points you made,’ I asked hurriedly, ‘could you tell me how you arrived at them?’
‘Oh, they were simple,’ he replied.
‘My lack of noble blood is evident then, I suppose?’
Dr Eliot chuckled to himself. ‘Your breeding, Lady Mowberley, is exquisite in every way. One thing, however, betrays you. You wear a brooch with the Mowberley coat of arms, and a bracelet round your wrist with the very same design. Clearly the ornaments have not been recently made. Therefore they must be heirlooms, a part of George’s inheritance and not your own, and yet you seem most attached to the memory of your own family. Why then do you not wear jewels inherited from them? Probably, I would suggest, because such jewels do not bear a coat of arms, and you are seduced by the novelty of wearing ornaments that do.’
‘Dear me!’ I lamented. ‘You seem to have a low opinion of my character.’
‘Not at all,’ laughed Dr Eliot good-humouredly. ‘But was my reasoning exact?’
‘Perfectly,’ I replied, ‘though I blush to confess it. You made it seem quite simple. However, I do not understand how you knew of my attachment to my family’s memory. Perhaps you were informed of that by George?’
‘Not at all,’ answered Dr Eliot. ‘I merely observed your umbrella.’
‘My umbrella?’
‘You will permit me to compliment you again, Lady Mowberley, when I observe that your dress perfectly reflects your wealth and taste. Your umbrella, however, seems out of place. It is clearly old, for its handle has a couple of cracks which have been expensively repaired, and the initials carved into the wood are not your own. It is ridiculous to assume that you cannot afford a new umbrella – therefore the one you carry must have some sentimental value, and when I observe the thin strip of black still tied in mourning round the handle, the probability is hardened into fact. Whose umbrella had it been, then? A woman’s, clearly, and someone older than you, for the umbrella itself seems almost antique. I deduced, therefore, that it must have been your mother’s.’ He paused suddenly, as though embarrassed by the rational coolness of his tone. ‘Please accept my apologies, Lady Mowberley, if my words have caused you pain.’
‘No, no,’ I replied. I paused fractionally, to compose myself and be certain that no catch would betray me when I spoke. ‘I have had almost two years now,’ I told him, ‘to grow accustomed to my loss.’
‘Indeed?’ He frowned. ‘That is a great pity, then – your mother never saw you married.’
I shook my head. And then – I was feeling a little emotional, perhaps – I told him the full story of my marriage to George: of how we had been pledged to each other since he was sixteen and I was twelve, he as the son of a peer of the realm, I as the daughter of a wealthy self-made man. ‘For George’s family, you must know,’ I told him, ‘had lost much of their wealth, and for the sake of my own they were prepared to overlook the meanness of my birth.’
Dr Eliot smiled sardonically at this. ‘I am quite sure they were,’ he said. ‘But – forgive me if I seem to pry – you were content with this arrangement yourself?’
‘Oh yes, indeed!’ I replied. ‘You must understand, Dr Eliot, that George has been my sweetheart for as long as I can recall. When my mother died, to whom else could I turn?’
‘But George, surely, had left Yorkshire a long time before? Had you seen him at all since then?’
‘Not for six or seven years.’
‘A period which you had spent entirely near Whitby?’
‘Yes. My mother, Dr Eliot, had grown very sick in that time. She needed me to attend on her, for she was nervous and infirm.’
He nodded gently. ‘Yes, well,’ he replied, ‘that would explain it, I suppose.’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘Explain what?’ I inquired.
‘You well recall,’ he said, a faint smile on his lips, ‘how I observed that you did not seem fond of High Society?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, remembering that he had indeed. I frowned for a moment, and then I smiled ruefully. ‘But of course – you deduced from your knowledge of my secluded youth in Yorkshire that I would be ill at ease amongst the salons of the metropolis. How very simple.’
‘Yes, exceedingly so.’ Dr Eliot smiled. ‘Except, of course, that when I made my observation I knew nothing of your youth.’
‘You did not? But…’ I stared at him, startled, as I realised the truth of what he had just said. ‘But how then did you know?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it is even simpler than you presumed.’ He gestured languidly. ‘Your arm, Lady Mowberley.’
‘My arm?’
‘Your right arm, to be precise. There are splashes of mud on your shoulder and sleeve. Clearly you have been leaning against the side of a hansom cab. A lady of your position, however, might surely have been expected to ride in a carriage of her own. The fact that you do not admits of only one explanation – you do not consider the expense of maintaining such a vehicle worthwhile. Evidently, then, you are not in the habit of making many excursions or calls.’
‘Remarkable!’ I exclaimed.
‘Commonplace,’ he replied.
‘It is quite true,’ I admitted – and you will know this all too well for yourself, dear Lucy – ‘that I have not yet adjusted well to city life. It is all so different from the country existence I knew as a child. My allergic response to the filthy London air, and my natural shyness, have combined to render me a virtual recluse.’
Dr Eliot bowed his head. ‘I am sorry to hear it’
‘I have very few friends in town, and no one in whom I could confide or trust’
‘You have your husband.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I nodded, and then lowered my head. ‘I had my husband.’
Not an emotion could be traced across Doctor Eliot’s gaunt, impassive face. Fingertip to fingertip, he arched his hands and then slumped back into the depths of his chair.
‘You will understand, of course,’ he said slowly, ‘that I cannot promise anything.’
I nodded wordlessly.
‘Very well then,’ he said, gesturing with his hand. ‘Please, Lady M
owberley. Draw up your chair, and give me the facts surrounding George’s disappearance.’
‘It is an extraordinary tale,’ I told him.
He smiled faintly. ‘I am certain it is.’
I cleared my throat. Relieved and full of sudden hope as I was, I felt nervous too – nervous, dear Lucy, as I feel nervous now, for what I told Dr Eliot then I must repeat in my writing to you, and I am afraid that the details may cause you great pain. My story touches on your brother’s death. Do not blame George for having kept the details from you, dearest Lucy, for his motives, I am confident, will grow clear from my account. Indeed – I only tell you the details now because I fear that a similar horror may have overtaken him. But read on – you have the courage, I know, to learn all which has hitherto been kept from you.
‘My husband,’ I told Dr Eliot, ‘had always had great ambitions to rise in politics.’
‘Ambitions,’ Dr Eliot murmured, ‘but not the application, as I recall.’
‘It is true,’ I admitted, ‘that George sometimes found the day-to-day business of political life tiresome. But he had hopes, Dr Eliot, and noble dreams, and I always knew that were he given the chance he would make a great name for himself on the national stage. But although George struggled manfully to advance his own career, his hopes always seemed doomed to frustration, and I know he felt his failure very keenly. He would never admit it to me, but I know that his despair was compounded by the parallel success of your mutual friend and contemporary, Arthur Ruthven. Arthur’s career in the India Office, I need hardly tell you, was a glittering one, and although barely thirty he was already spoken of as one of our most brilliant diplomatists. Clearly the precise details were kept from me, but he was responsible, I knew, for numerous missions of great delicacy and trust’
‘Always within the India Office?’ Dr Eliot interrupted me.
I nodded.
‘Very good,’ He shut his eyes again. ‘Proceed.’
‘Arthur Ruthven,’ I continued, ‘was a very good friend – you will hardly need me to tell you that. He was perfectly aware of George’s desire to rise in the Government, and I am sure that he did his best to help. Do not misunderstand me, Dr Eliot. Arthur was always the soul of propriety. He would have done nothing unworthy of his position of trust. But he may have had words with his Minister, he may have dropped the occasional hint. Nothing more than that, I am certain – nothing more. Suffice it to say, however, that some two years ago, shortly before our wedding, George finally entered the Government.’
‘In the India Office?’ Dr Eliot asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What were his responsibilities?’
I frowned. ‘I am not certain. Does it matter?’
‘If you don’t tell me,’ he replied sharply, ‘how can I possibly decide?’
‘I do know,’ I said slowly, ‘that he has a Bill to pilot through the House this summer. Obviously he has never talked about it much to me, but I believe it is related to the Indian frontier.’
‘Indian frontier?’ To my surprise, Dr Eliot seemed suddenly awakened by this news. He leaned forward and his eyes, I noticed, were glittering again. ‘Elaborate,’ he said impatiently. ‘Which aspect, exactly, of the Indian frontier?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ I answered helplessly. ‘George never talks to me about his work. I am his wife, Dr Eliot, after all.’
He slumped back into his chair with a sign of evident frustration. ‘But this parliamentary Bill,’ he asked, ‘for which George has the responsibility – do you know if he was working on it with Arthur Ruthven?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am certain of that much, at least?’
‘George as the Minister and Arthur as the diplomatist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He folded his hands again. ‘Then that is suggestive.’
I frowned. ‘I don’t understand you,’ I said.
He gestured disdainfully. ‘Clearly, Lady Mowberley, if Arthur Ruthven’s fate has overtaken your husband – forgive my bluntness, but we must consider the possibility – then we shall need to establish what it is which might link the two men. They were both working on this Bill and it is concerned with the Indian frontier. That is a topic of some sensitivity, I would have thought. You see, Lady Mowberley, what a fruitful line of inquiry at once opens up?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded and I thought further. ‘Yes, I am sure you are right.’
He looked at me with interest. ‘Why, you have evidence of it yourself?’
I swallowed. ‘You are seeking for something which links the two men. Well, Dr Eliot, there is something. Whether it relates to George’s work, I do not know. George himself seemed to imply that it did, but I believe it was as great a mystery to him as it is to me now.’
‘Ah,’ said Dr Eliot, with something like contentment. He lounged back in his chair and closed his eyes again, then swished one hand lazily. ‘Continue, Lady Mowberley.’
I swallowed, as well I might. Prepare yourself, Lucy, for what you must now read, for I am afraid that it will not be easy for you. ‘It was just over a year ago,’ I said slowly, ‘when Arthur came round to our home for a light dinner.’ I then described to Dr Eliot what we had discussed that night: chiefly, dear Lucy, it had been you, and your determination to go back to the stage. You will remember how opposed your brother had been; and yet by the end of that evening he was laughing admiringly at your enthusiasm, and talking almost as though he would encourage you. ‘I see that Lucy is determined to be a New Woman,’ Arthur said, ‘and clearly will not be turned aside. For obsessions are irrational and almost daemonic things, and we delude ourselves if we think they are a malady alone of the young.’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Dr Eliot, who had been lolling with eyes closed as I gave him my account. ‘I remember at college Ruthven had a famous obsession of his own.’
‘And what was that?’ I inquired.
‘He was a great collector of ancient Greek coins.’
‘And so he still was when I knew him. Indeed, he often claimed within my hearing that his collection was quite unsurpassed.’
‘Amusing,’ murmured Dr Eliot faintly.
‘Yes. We all found it so, I believe. Arthur himself readily admitted that there was an absurd aspect to his enthusiasm, especially in one otherwise so sober and reserved. “But there is nothing I would not do,” he told us that night, “in pursuit of a coin from the age of the Greeks. I have the honour of my collection to uphold. Indeed, it seems that I have grown notorious, for see” – he reached in his bag – “I have only today received a personal challenge.” ‘
“‘A challenge?” I remember George exclaiming. “What the devil do you mean?”’
‘Arthur smiled faintly, but did not reply. Instead, he placed on the table a red wooden box. He opened it, and we saw that inside was a small piece of card with writing on it. “What is it?” I asked in astonishment.
‘“See for yourself,” said Arthur, handing it to me.
‘I took it. The card was of the highest quality but the writing was clumsy, and the ink of a strange quality, for it was a dark purple and flaked when touched. The message, however, was even more strange – so strange, indeed, that even now I can remember it perfectly. Sir, you are a fool, it read. Your collection is worthless. You have allowed the greatest prize of all to slip through, your hands. It was signed simply, A rival.
‘George took the message from my hands and read it for himself. He began to laugh, and soon we had all joined in – Arthur the loudest, although it was clear, I think, that his pride had indeed been touched. We asked him how he intended to respond to his insolent challenger. Arthur shook his head and laughed again, but I was certain he intended to follow the mystery through. How, I wasn’t sure, for I didn’t press him, but behind his laughter I had recognised pique and resolve.
A week later, I asked him if he had discovered his challenger’s identity; he shrugged the question aside, but he smiled in that close way he always had and it was clear that the myst
ery had been preying on his mind. Two weeks later, Arthur Ruthven disappeared. A week after that, his corpse was found floating in the Thames off Rotherhithe, naked and wholly drained of its blood. Arthur’s expression, George reported to me, had been one of the utmost horror.’
I paused. Dr Eliot, his eyes half-closed, had laced his fingers together as though in prayer. ‘Your account,’ he said at last, ‘implies a link between Arthur’s disappearance and his earlier receipt of the peculiar box.’
I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said, and cleared my throat. ‘When Arthur was pulled from the water, his hand was found to be clenched. The fingers were straightened out and a coin – a Greek coin – was discovered in his palm.’
‘Suggestive,’ observed Dr Eliot, ‘but not conclusive.’
‘The coin was certified to be of great value.’
Dr Eliot stared at me impassively. ‘You informed the police?’
‘I did.’
‘And their response?’
‘They were very polite, but…’
‘Ah.’ Dr Eliot smiled faintly. ‘You did not have the box, then?’
‘It was never found.’
‘Ah,’ nodded Dr Eliot again. ‘That is a shame.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But perhaps, Lady Mowberley, since you obviously feel it worth your time to be here, you have some further evidence yourself?’
I lowered my eyes. ‘I do,’ I whispered.
‘Tell me.’
Again, dear Lucy, I had to compose myself. I swallowed. ‘Some months ago,’ I said softly, ‘a parcel came, addressed to our house. Inside there was a box…’
‘And the box was the same as that which Arthur had received?’
‘In almost every way.’
‘Remarkable,’ said Dr Eliot, rubbing his hands. ‘There was a piece of card too, then, addressed to George?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied. ‘It was addressed to me.’
‘Ah.’ He narrowed his eyes again. ‘Intriguing. What was its message, Lady Mowberley?’
‘An insulting one.’
