by Tom Holland
After a few minutes the door opened again and a woman came in. How can I describe her? Her dress was beautiful – red velvet, cut low. Her dark hair was braided and very long. Her face was so lovely, it was almost painful to see. I felt… strangely drawn to her. She had … something – a power – an overwhelming attractiveness …’ Lucy closed her eyes. For a long while she said nothing. ‘She filled me with terror,’ she whispered at last. Her voice traded away.
‘Up until that moment,’ she continued eventually in a distant voice, ‘I had begun to doubt that I had seen George’s murder at all. But Jack – when that woman came in, I knew for certain that I had not been hallucinating but had indeed seen something terrible. And then – when I received Lady Mowberle’s letter…’ Her voice traded away; she frowned and shook her head. ‘I knew,’ she repeated simply. ‘I knew.’
‘Knew what?’ asked Eliot, impatience in his voice.
Lucy looked up. ‘The woman that I met in that room – it was the same woman who has been haunting Lady Mowberley.’ She looked round at Westcote and me. ‘Lady Mowberley saw her last night,’ she explained, ‘after she had broken into her house.’
‘But how can you be sure it was the same woman?’ asked Eliot as impatiently as before.
‘In the letter, that description of her …’ Lucy shook her head again. ‘You remember that Lady Mowberley could not define the qualities of her intruder’s face? – not exactly – she could only say that it was the most extraordinary face she had ever seen? Well’ – she nodded her head – ‘that was exactly how I felt too. As I said, it was beautiful, Jack – oh, how beautiful – but there seemed the most potent sense of danger in her eyes as well, and fascination, and evil, and greatness too, and oh – how can I describe it? I can’t. I just can’t.’ She clenched her hand and raised it to her lips, in dear frustration at her failure to define what she had seen. ‘But I could feel her almost seducing me,’ she whispered softly. ‘Yes, seducing me. In the end, I had to force myself to tear my gaze away.’
There was a lengthy pause, then Eliot folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. ‘There are many striking women in London,’ he said.
‘No, Jack, but listen, I haven’t told you all.’ Lucy unclenched her fingers, and turned back to us. ‘There was a second person Lady Mowberley saw last night: a foreign gentleman, a dark-skinned man, from India perhaps, or Arabia.’
‘Ah,’ said Eliot with sudden animation and surprise, ‘you never saw such a man yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I did. The policeman had just returned into the front room. He told me that he had searched everywhere in the flat but had found no trace of a struggle, still less of a corpse. He apologised to the mistress of the house, and suggested that we make our retreat forthwith. Then we heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside…’
‘Up the stairs?’ asked Eliot, interrupting her.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy.
‘You are certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
Eliot frowned. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Continue, please.’
There is very little else to say. The gentleman came in through the front door. He was dressed in evening clothes, though without anything to cover them, and it was clearly his cloak which had been left on the fauteuil He listened to the policeman’s account of what I had seen, and appeared most surprised, and then we left. I had no reason particularly to suspect him. It was only when I received Lady Mowberley’s letter that my doubts began to harden into fear. Jack – I had seen George up there. I had seen him killed!’
Eliot had been listening all this time with his eyes half-dosed. ‘I agree,’ he murmured, ‘that it all seems most suggestive. However, tell me – the foreign gentleman’s response to your own presence in his front room: did he seem unsettled by it in any way?’
‘Not at all,’ Lucy replied. ‘He appeared remarkably calm. Indeed, he seemed almost to be mocking me. His self-possession was perfectly loathsome.’
‘Loathsome?’
Yes. That was how he struck me.’ Lucy repeated the word with insistence. ‘Loathsome.’
Eliot nodded. ‘And did he speak to you at all?’
‘The merest pleasantries.’
‘Ah.’ Eliot’s brow darkened and his eyes opened wide and as beady as before. ‘Then this does indeed seem a most baffling case,’ he agreed. ‘I take it, dear Lucy, that you wish me to pursue it as far as I can?’
‘But of course, Jack. Arthur is dead already – in what strange circumstances, I have only recently fully learned. The thought that George should have been tempted to the same awful fate…’
‘Very well.’ Eliot nodded and glanced at his watch. ‘If you have nothing more to say, then, I should depart at once…’
‘Oh, but Jack, I do!’
Lucy had reached out to hold him and Eliot looked round in surprise. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Tonight – I saw them again – they were here tonight.’
‘In the theatre?’ I exclaimed. ‘Not the lady and the foreigner?’
Lucy nodded. ‘I am certain it was them. They were seated in their own box, on the right, the one nearest to the stage – that was how I could distinguish them. The woman was not there for the second half, but the gentleman stayed for the entire performance. He left though, very hurriedly, during Mr Irving’s speech of thanks at the end.’
Eliot turned to me. ‘Would you have a record of the person who had hired that box?’
‘Naturally,’ I replied. ‘The details would be in my office.’
‘Then let us go there at once.’ Eliot turned to Lucy. ‘Have no fear,’ he said, holding her hands. ‘I will do all I can to resolve this case.’ He kissed her; gathering his coat, he then left the room and I followed him. We began to walk down the corridor towards my office, but as we went we heard footsteps from behind and, turning round, saw Westcote coming after us.
‘Dr Eliot,’ he asked, ‘I must know – is Lucy in great danger, do you think?’
Eliot shrugged faintly. ‘It is too early to be certain,’ he replied.
‘If there is anything I can do, any danger that must be run…’
Eliot nodded. ‘Then stay with your wife. Be with her at all times. Be prepared for anything.’
Westcote stared at him hesitantly. ‘And that is how I can help her best?’
‘I am certain that it is.’ Eliot smiled and clapped Westcote upon the shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Be worthy of the woman you have married.’ And then he turned, and I accompanied him, and we heard Westcote go back down the passage to his wife.
‘You truly think Miss Ruthven is in danger?’ I asked, once we had reached my office.
‘Mrs Westcote, you mean.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I corrected myself. ‘Mrs Westcote.’
Eliot took the ledger that I had handed to him, and shook his head. ‘I think not.’ He frowned. ‘But then this case is not as simple as I had earlier assumed it to be.’ His frown deepened, and then he shook his head again and stared down at the ledger where I had opened it.
‘Here,’ I said, pointing, ‘this was the box. Good Lord! Dr Eliot! What on earth is the matter?’
For Eliot had turned the most deathly shade of pale. His eyes were fixed on the entry in the ledger and his lips had parted in amazement. ‘And yet,’ he murmured, rising to his feet, ‘it must surely be a coincidence…’
His eyes dimmed and he seemed lost in his own private reverie. I looked down at the ledger to see what had caused him such astonishment. The box had been reserved in the name of the Rajah of Kalikshutra. ‘A Rajah!’ I exclaimed. ‘So Miss Ruthven was right. He was an Indian.’
‘Yes,’ said Eliot, looking back at me. ‘Or so it would seem.’
‘Does Kalikshutra mean anything to you?’
‘A little,’ he replied. He glanced down at the entry in the ledger again, his face now as impassive as it had been before. He shrugged, then slammed the ledger shut. ‘It is late,’ he said.
‘No doubt I will have a lengthy day ahead of me tomorrow. I must go, Mr Stoker. I thank you for your time.’
‘I will come with you,’ I replied. I locked up my office and then accompanied Eliot out into the street. We walked together up Drury Lane, looking for a hansom, but it was later than I had thought, and even around Covent Garden the streets were almost empty. We walked on down Floral Street, and as we did so I became aware that a carriage was following us – black, with a coat of arms on its door, its wheels rumbling along the cobbled stones. As it drew level with us, there was the rap of a cane upon the window and the vehicle shuddered to a halt. The window was opened and a pale hand beckoned to us. Eliot ignored it; he continued to walk down the street.
Lord Ruthven leaned out from the carriage window. I watched him smile. ‘Dr John Eliot,’ he called out. ‘I believe that your surgery is very starved of funds?’
Eliot looked round at him in surprise. ‘And if it is,’ he said, ‘what concern is that of yours?’
Lord Ruthven held out an envelope, and dropped it ‘Read this,’ he said. ‘It may prove to be to your advantage.’ Then he rapped with his cane on the carriage roof. The coachman shook out the reins, and the vehicle began to move away from us.
Eliot watched it as it rounded the next comer and disappeared, then he bent down and picked up the envelope. He opened it and read the message inside; then he handed it to me. From the address embossed at the top of the sheet, I recognised the name of a street in Mayfair. ‘Visit me,’ Lord Ruthven had written. ‘We have much to discuss.’ I looked up at Eliot. ‘Will you go?’ I asked.
He made no answer at first, then he shivered and wrapped his coat tight about himself. ‘I have enough mysteries to concern me as it is,’ he muttered at last. He took the letter from my hand and began to walk on down the street.
‘If I can help you…’ I called out after him.
He didn’t look round.
‘You know,’ I called out again, ‘I would do anything to preserve Miss Ruthven from danger.’
‘Bond Street tomorrow,’ he said, still without glancing round. ‘Nine o’clock.’
‘I will be there,’ I promised.
‘Good-night, Mr Stoker.’ He walked on. The darkness rapidly swallowed him.
The next morning in Bond Street, I expected to find him by the jeweller’s shop. Instead he was standing by the doorway to the right of Headley’s, which I realised was the entrance to the floors above. Eliot smiled when he saw me, and came out to take my arm. ‘Stoker,’ he said cheerily, but his grip as he held me was very tight, and he pulled me with some force to prevent me from walking further down the street ‘Not past the front of the jeweller’s shop,’ he said, still in a voice as cheery as before, rather as though he were suggesting breakfast Indeed, his whole manner was that of someone inviting a friend up to his rooms. He pushed open the door and ushered me through; then, perfectly coolly, he followed me in and locked the door.
‘Where did you get the key?’ I asked in some surprise.
‘Lahore,’ he replied. His smile had faded completely now; he looked up the stairs and his face was perfectly inscrutable again. ‘Do you notice anything interesting?’ he asked.
I stared about me. ‘No,’ I replied.
‘Not the carpet?’
I looked down and studied it carefully. ‘There seems nothing unusual,’ I commented at last.
Eliot fixed me with his piercing gaze. ‘I did not say unusual, I said interesting,’ he replied. ‘Well, it can wait.’ He turned and began to walk up the stairs.
I followed him. ‘What are we doing?’ I asked.
Eliot had stopped by a door on the first-floor landing. He still had the key in his hand. He fitted it into the lock, and only then did he glance round at me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I have had the flat watched all night. There is no one in.’
‘For Heaven’s sake, though,’ I whispered urgently, ‘this is burglary. Think what you are doing, Eliot!’
‘I have thought,’ he answered as he turned the key, ‘and there is no other way.’ He opened the door, and hurried me in. Quietly, he closed the door behind us and turned to face me. ‘Do you believe that Lucy was telling the truth?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘Then we are justified in what we do, Stoker – I fear that there may be some great evil abroad. These are deep waters we are in. Believe me, we have no choice but to break in to this place.’ He looked about him. The room was just as it had been described to us. It was opulent, decorated with great refinement and taste, and yet there was a lushness – almost, dare I say it, a decadence about it – so that its beauty seemed overheated, like that of an orchid too ripely in bloom. I felt oddly nervous and Eliot too, glancing around the room, seemed to flinch. I followed his gaze. He gestured towards the front wall where there were two bay windows looking out on to the street ‘That is where George would have been standing when Lucy saw him,’ Eliot murmured. Taking a small eye-glass from his pocket, he walked along the edge of the wall and fell to his knees. Having studied the carpet with minute attention, he frowned and shook his head, then moved across to the second window. Again, he bowed his head and studied the floor. I joined him. The carpet was thick and brightly coloured, but I could see at once that it was quite unstained. Then suddenly I heard Eliot breathe in sharply. ‘Here!’ he whispered, pointing at the wainscot. ‘Stoker! What do you make of this?’
I looked. There was a spot of something, so tiny that it was scarcely visible to the naked eye, and above it a couple more spots. Eliot peered at them. He scratched at one, then held his finger up to the light; the nail’s edge was coloured a rusty brown. He frowned, then dabbed at the nail with the tip of his tongue. ‘Well?’ I asked impatiently. Eliot glanced round. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it is certainly blood.’
I turned pale. ‘So Lucy was right,’ I whispered. ‘The poor fellow was murdered after all.’
Eliot shook his head. ‘But she saw his face quite damp with blood.’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I frowned. ‘So what is your point?’
‘That whoever the blood on that cloth had come from, it could not have been from a serious wound to George.’ He pointed at the panelling. These tiny stains are hardly consistent with the flow of blood that would have been necessary to soak a piece of fabric. The very fact that the marks are still here suggests that no serious wound was inflicted at all.’
‘But why?’ I asked.
‘Because,’ said Eliot impatiently, ‘the stains were not wiped away. They were overlooked, not just by Lucy but by whoever lives in this flat. Observe the carpet. Lucy was quite right. There are no marks of blood there – or at least, none that can be distinguished. No,’ he said, shaking his head and rising to his feet, ‘these traces of blood only make the case more intractable. On the one hand, they prove that George could hardly have bled to death. But on the other, they suggest that Lucy was not imagining things when she saw him smothered by a cloth damp with blood. It is all most perplexing.’
He looked about him, then rose to his feet. He crossed to the door on the far side of the room, opened it, and I followed him through into the passageway beyond. Like the front room, this corridor was richly furnished, and the rooms which it led to seemed as luxurious as the rest. I was struck, though, by the absence of a bedroom, and commented on this peculiarity to Eliot.
‘Clearly,’ he answered, ‘this flat is not employed as a place of residence.’
‘Then as what?’
Eliot shrugged. ‘It must serve its owners as a convenience stop, a place of rest or refuge in the centre of the capital. Where their principal abode lies, we cannot yet be sure.’
‘It must be somewhere exceedingly refined,’
‘Oh?’ Eliot looked at me sharply. ‘Why do you think that?’
I stared at him, surprised. ‘Well, only because the expense that has been lavished on this flat is so remarkable,’ I replied.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it is mor
e than remarkable, it is baffling, and it is precisely that which leads me to doubt that our suspects live openly anywhere.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
Eliot gestured impatiently. ‘Look around. Yes, Stoker, you are right – money has been spent with great abandon here. But why on this place? Why on a flat above a shop? Even if it is Bond Street. Surely they could afford somewhere better than this? It all seems most implausible. Unless …’ He paused and stared about him again, and his face seemed to lighten as though with a sudden flush of hope. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘it is clear that we shall find no dead body here. Perhaps there are other avenues we can search more profitably,’ He clapped me on the arm. ‘Come, Stoker. I need your help in an experiment.’
We returned to the entrance door which Eliot opened. ‘You will notice,’ he said, pointing down, ‘how very thick the stairway carpet is. I observed it at once. It was that to which I attempted to draw your attention downstairs.’
‘I am sorry,’ I replied, ‘but I still fail to see its significance.’
Eliot looked surprised. ‘Why, Stoker, a thick carpet muffles the sound of feet!’ he exclaimed. He glanced up at the floor above. ‘Now – perhaps you would care to ascend to that balcony there, and then come back downstairs, past this door and then on down the next flight of stairs. But, please! – tread as quietly as you possibly can.’
‘Quietly?’ I replied. ‘I am not a light man on my feet, I am afraid.’
‘Exactly,’ said Eliot, shutting the door in my face so that I was left alone by the balcony. Seeing his point at last – I am afraid you will think me a little slow! – I did as he had requested. Once I had finished my descent I waited by the front door, but then, when Eliot did not reappear, I climbed back up the stairs. As I did so I walked with my normal tread, and at once the door to the flat was flung open. ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Eliot, coming out to join me. ‘Now that you are walking like an elephant again, I can hear you perfectly, but during your descent there was not so much as a tiny creak. Most suggestive, I think you will agree.’
