Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Yes, my heart is deeply hurt. Up to this time I have only felt as a father, now I feel as a man. Tomorrow I will send for my family and consult with them. I will change my will. I will advertise that for the future I will not be responsible for any debts that my son may contract. He will not have a penny and will soon learn how society treats a man with empty pockets. The young woman then will disappear in double quick time.”

  “But is there no other way?” asked Robert.

  “No, none, whatever.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s impossible that this plan originated in my son’s thick brain. Someone must have put him up to it.”

  Robert felt sorry for the father, who was already looking for some excuse for his son’s conduct.

  Later that day, back home, Robert removed his coat and donned his painter’s blouse, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his shoulders. “I must get to business,” he murmured, “to make up for lost time.” He set to work with great vigor, but had hardly got into the swing, when his landlady told him that a gentleman wanted to see him. Robert was a good deal put out at being disturbed, but when he reached the street and saw that it was Mr. Ingoldmells, who was waiting for him, his ill-humor disappeared like chaff before the wind.

  “Ah, this is really kind of you,” he cried, because he could never forget the debt of gratitude he owed to the gentleman. “A thousand thanks for remembering me. Excuse me for not shaking hands, but see?” and he showed his palms all green with paint. As he did so the smile died away on his lips, because he caught sight of his friend’s face.

  “What is the matter?” he screamed, anxiously. “Has Felicia had a relapse?”

  Ingoldmells shook his head. The news that Felicia was not worse relieved Robert at once and he patiently waited for his friend to explain.

  Ingoldmells said, “Come with me at once. I drove here.”

  “I will be ready in five minutes.”

  “Why waste time?”

  “To make myself a little more presentable.”

  Mr. Ingoldmells nodded and waited. Then they set off.

  Without having exchanged twenty words, they reached the mansion. They entered the library. Mr. Ingoldmells closed the door.

  “This morning, about twelve o’clock, as I was driving through Kensington, I saw Georgette, who had been waiting for you for more than an hour.”

  “I could not help it. I had to work.”

  “As soon as she saw me, she ran up to me. She was disappointed at not having seen you. Knowing we are friends, she entrusted me with a letter for you from Miss Burgh le Marsh.”

  Robert shuddered. The note could only contain evil tidings, with which Ingoldmells was already acquainted. “Give it to me,” he said harshly and with trembling hands he tore open the envelope and read its contents.

  “Dearest Robert, I love you and will forever continue to do so, but I have duties, which I must fulfil, even though they will cost me my life. We will never meet again in this world and this letter is the last one you will ever receive from me. Before long you will see the announcement of my marriage. Pity me, because great as your pain will be, it will be nothing compared to mine. My darling, this is the last word you will ever receive from your poor unhappy Felicia.”

  As the young painter mastered the contents of the letter his face became ghastly pale and a shudder convulsed every nerve and muscle of his body. With a mechanical gesture he gave the letter to Mr. Ingoldmells, saying only the word, “Read.”

  His friend obeyed, more than alarmed by Robert’s lack of emotions.

  “Don’t lose heart,” he screamed after reading it.

  But Robert interrupted him. “Lose heart?” he said. “You don’t understand. When Felicia was ill, perhaps dying, I was heartbroken. Now she tells me that she loves me.”

  Mr. Ingoldmells was about to speak, but Robert went on.

  “Her parents must all along have intended to break with you. Did they receive a more advantageous offer of marriage? Not likely. What terrible event has happened? My brave Felicia would never have submitted to a marriage proposal unless some coercion had been used, which she could not struggle against.”

  As Robert said these words Ingoldmells’s mind was busy with similar thoughts. Georgette had told him about the approaching marriage and had begged him to be careful how he communicated the facts to Robert.

  “You notice,” continued the young painter, “the strange coincidence between Felicia’s illness and this note. Do you remember that Mr. Poiret told us that during Felicia’s illness her father and mother never left her bedside? Was this not for fear lest some guilty secret of theirs might escape her feverish brain?”

  “Yes, I remember that and I have long had reason to imagine that there is some terrible family secret in the Burgh le Marsh’s family.”

  “What can it be?” Robert turned away and paced rapidly up and down the room. “Yes,” he said, suddenly, “there is a mystery, but you and I will leave no stone unturned until we penetrate it.”

  He took a chair closer to the side of his friend. “Listen,” he said. “Do you believe that the most terrible necessity alone has compelled Felicia to write this letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both the count and countess were willing to accept you as their son-in-law.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could Mr. Burgh le Marsh have found a more brilliant match for his daughter?”

  Ingoldmells could hardly repress a smile.

  “I’m not paying you a compliment,” said Robert impatiently. “Reply to my question.”

  “Very well then, yes.”

  “Didn’t Georgette tell us that on the very day you sent the letter the count was going to call on you to break off the engagement?”

  “Yes, if we are to believe Georgette.”

  As if to give more emphasis to his words Robert sprang to his feet. “This new man,” he cried, “this man, who has so suddenly appeared on the scene, will marry Felicia, not only against her own will, but against that of her parents. But for what reason? Who is this man and what is the mysterious hold he has over them?”

  “I admit the correctness of your supposition,” Ingoldmells said.

  The young man said with a fierce fire in his eyes, “Felicia wants me to tear her from my heart. I will do so for the time. I have will power and patience. This villain, who’s wrecking my life, does not know me and I will only reveal myself on the day that I hold him helpless in my hand.”

  “Mr. Crawley!” said Ingoldmells.

  “As soon as I have this man’s name, I will kill him.”

  “That’s the height of madness! It will ruin all your hopes of marriage with Felicia.”

  On hearing these words Robert regained some of his calmness.

  “You’re right. Blood on a bridal dress, they say, brings bad luck.”

  He paused for a few seconds then once again broke the silence, which reigned in the room.

  “He cannot have attained such a height of infamy by a single bound. The course of his life must be full of similar crimes, growing deeper and deadlier as he moves up. I will unmask him and hold him up to the scorn and contempt for all England to see.”

  “Yes, that is the plan to pursue.”

  “And we will do so, sir.” He paused. “I say “we,” because I rely on your help. I would be a mere madman, if I didn’t beg you to grant me your help and advice. We’ve both known hardship and are capable to withstand adverse winds, if necessity requires it of us. We can keep our plans to ourselves and act.”

  Robert paused again, as if waiting for a reply, but his friend stayed silent.

  “My plan is simple,” resumed the young painter. “As soon as we know the gentleman’s name we will be able to act. He will never suspect us, so we can follow him like his very shadow. We will lay bare this man’s entire life. Are we not as clever as him?”

  Mr. Ingoldmells nodded.

  “I’m with you!” he said.

  Before the artist could talk agai
n they heard a loud noise on the other side of the library door and a voice said, “Monsieur Ingoldmells, let Poiret in at once.”

  “It is Mr. Poiret,” said Ingoldmells, drawing the bolt back and the detective rushed hastily into the room and threw himself into a low chair.

  His big face was bedewed with sweat and he was in a terrible state of excitement.

  “What is the matter, Mr. Poiret?” asked Ingoldmells kindly, as he put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Something terrible,” he answered with a sigh, “but you may be able to help me. Can you lend to Poiret the sum of twenty-five thousand shilling?”

  Ingoldmells smiled, a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “If that is all you require, do not worry.”

  “But I want them at once.”

  “Can you give me half an hour?”

  “Yes, but please not to lose time.”

  Ingoldmells took a check and dispatched his footman for the money.

  “A thousand thanks!” said the detective. “But money is not all that Poiret, he requires. He is also in need of your advice.”

  Robert was about to leave detective and client alone, but the detective stopped him.

  “Please to stay, Monsieur Crawley,” he said. “You are not in the way. Besides, Poiret, he has to speak of someone in whom you take the deep interest. Poiret speaks of Mademoiselle Burgh le Marsh. Poiret, he has never known such a strange occurrence,” continued the detective, recovering his spirits rapidly, “as that to which, my dear Ingoldmells, you owe the visit of Poiret. Poiret was about to go to his private rooms to change the clothes, because he had been detained by visitor after visitor, when at two o’clock another one came before him, before Poiret, he could give the order, “Not at home.” This man was Sir Alfred Yelvertoft, the brother of the man, who twenty-five years ago, he disappears in so mysterious a manner. Poiret hardly knows Sir Yelvertoft at all, though of course he has met him at the opera, but that is all.”

  “And yet he called on you today?” said Ingoldmells.

  “Oui,” said the detective. “He is the man good-looking, faultlessly dressed and talks well. He brought to Poiret a letter from an old friend. In the letter the old lady friend of Poiret, she says that the lord, he is one of her friends and begs Poiret for her sake to do him the service he requires. Of course Poiret, he asks him to be seated and assures him that he will do everything that lay in his power. Then he begins to talk about Monsieur Reigate and tells to Poiret a story about that eccentric man and a little actress. Poiret, he listens intently as it is an amusing histoire. Poiret, he then hears a great noise in the hallway. Poiret, he is about to ring and inquire about the cause, when the door, it flies open and in comes Monsieur Richard Blake, the tailor to the ladies with a very inflamed face. He had come in a hurry and Poiret, he is sure that he needs the opinion and the help of Poiret. But helas! Do you know what the impudent gentleman, he wants?”

  A smile beamed in Ingoldmells’s eyes as he answered, “Money, perhaps!”

  “You are correct,” answered the Frenchman, gravely. “He has bought the debts to the bank, which Poiret, he incurred when he bought and redecorated his apartment. He demands immediate payment. Poiret, he never thought that a man, who supplies the most elevated section of society, could have been guilty of such impertinence. Poiret, he orders him to leave the room, taking it for granted that he would do so with an apology, but Poiret, he was wrong. He flew into a rage and threatens Poiret and swears that if Poiret, he does not pay back the loans on the spot, he will go to the court. The loans, they are nearly twenty-five thousand shilling. Messieurs, you can imagine the horror Poiret, he must have felt! Poiret declared to him that he only lives on the pension of a policeman, which is enough to cover the monthly interest on the loan and a small part of the principle as agreed to by Scotland Fidelity Assurance, but his investments are not enough to cover the debts. Poiret, he asks him for the time. But his request, it adds to the gentleman’s annoyance and taking a seat in an armchair, he declares that he will not move from it, until he receives his money or had seen Poiret sentenced for fraud. Messieurs, Jules Poiret, formerly of the French police, decorated many times, sentenced for fraud! C’est absurde!”

  “What was Yelvertoft doing all this time?” asked Mr. Ingoldmells.

  “He took his wallet and threw it in the face of Monsieur Richard Blake and he said, “Pay yourself, you insolent scoundrel and get out of here.”

  “And the tailor left?”

  “Non! “I must give you the receipt,” he says and taking writing materials from his pocket, he writes on the loan contract, “Received from Sir Alfred Yelvertoft, on account of money owed by Mr. Jules Poiret, subject of France and now living in London, the sum of twenty-five thousand shilling.”

  “Well,” said Ingoldmells, looking very grave, “and after Richard Blake’s departure, I suppose Yelvertoft stayed to ask for the favor for which he had called in the first place?”

  “You are mistaken, mon ami,” answered the former policeman. “Poiret, he has great difficulty in making him speak, but at last he confesses to him that he is deeply in love with Mademoiselle Burgh le Marsh and begs Poiret to present him to her parents and exert all his influence on his behalf.”

  Both the young men started.

  “That is the man!” they cried.

  “What is it you mean?” asked the small rotund man, looking from one to the other.

  “Sir Alfred Yelvertoft is a despicable scoundrel. Just listen to our reasons for coming to this conclusion.” And with the most perfect clearness Ingoldmells told Poiret the whole story.

  The well-dressed man listened attentively and then said, “Your premises, they are wrong. Let Poiret say a word on the matter. You say that Monsieur Yelvertoft, he is the man, who by means of the influence, which he exercises over the count and countess he can coerce them into granting him the hand of Felicia. But, my dear Monsieur Ingoldmells, a stranger to the family, he cannot exercise this power. Monsieur Yelvertoft, he has never entered the doors of their house and he came to Poiret to ask him for the introduction.”

  The justness of this remark silenced Ingoldmells, but Robert thought differently.

  “This seems all right at first glance, but still, after the extraordinary scene that Mr. Poiret described, I would like to ask a few questions. Was not Richard Blake’s behavior very unexpected?”

  “It is infamous,” said Poiret, getting angry at the memory.

  “But Richard Blake is nasty sometimes. Did he not sue Miss Hornchurch?” asked Ingoldmells.

  “But he didn’t, I expect, force his way into her salon and behave outrageously before a perfect stranger. Do you know Mr. Yelvertoft?” continued Robert.

  “Only so-so. He is of the good family and his brother, Lord Martin Yelvertoft, he was much esteemed by all, who knew him. When he disappeared, some twenty-five years it is now, Poiret, who was a policeman, he was put in charge of the search for him in Paris, because he was able to speak English and able to speak with the Scotland Yard in London. It was a huge honor for Poiret.”

  “Has he plenty of money?”

  “I don’t think so, but in time he will inherit a large fortune. Very likely he is over his head and ears in debt,” said Ingoldmells.

  “And yet he had twenty-five thousand shilling in his wallet. Is that not rather a large sum to carry when you’re simply making a morning call? Isn’t it curious, too, that it was the exact sum wanted. Then there is another point, the wallet was hurled into Richard Blake’s face. Did he submit without a word to such treatment?”

  “He said not a thing,” replied Mr. Poiret, smiling slyly, listening at the young man.

  “One more question, if you please. Did Richard Blake open the wallet and count the banknotes before he gave the receipt?”

  The former policeman thought for a moment.

  “Non!”

  Robert’s face began to glow.

  “Good, very good! He was told to pay himsel
f and yet he never looked to see if the money was there, but he gave the receipt.”

  “It does seem odd,” said Ingoldmells.

  “And,” continued Robert, “now, lastly, where is the receipt?”

  Mr. Poiret turned very pale and trembled violently.

  He said, “Poiret, he felt sure that something, it is going to happen. Poiret does not have the receipt. Monsieur Yelvertoft, he crumpled it up in his hand and threw it on the table. After a while, however, he takes it up and puts it in his pocket.”

  “It is all perfectly clear,” said Robert in jubilant tones. “Mr. Yelvertoft had need of your aid. He knew that he could not easily obtain it and so he sought to bind you by the means of a loan made to you at a time of great need.”

  “You’re right,” said Ingoldmells.

  The policeman’s giddy mode of action had brought him into many scrapes, but never into so terrible a one as this.

  “Mon Dieu,” he cried. “What do you think that Monsieur Yelvertoft, he will do with this receipt?”

  “He will do nothing,” answered Mr. Ingoldmells, “if you do everything to advance his cause, but pause for an instant and he will show you the hand of steel which has up to now been covered by the velvet glove.”

  “Poiret, he is alarmed,” said Poiret softly.

  “And why not?” answered Ingoldmells. “You know very well that in these days of lavish expenditure and unbridled luxury, there are many of high birth in society, who are so basely vile that they ruin their loved ones with as little compunction as the criminal class. Tomorrow even Yelvertoft may say at the club, “On my word that Poiret costs me a tremendous lot,” and hands about this receipt for twenty-five thousand shilling. What do you imagine that people will think then?”

  “The world, it knows Poiret too well to think so ill of him.”

  “No, no, Mr. Poiret, there is no charity in society. You may be known in France, but here you are an unknown. There will be a significant laugh among the members and in time, a very short time, the doors to high society begin closing in your face.”

  Poiret wrung his hands.

  “It is too horrible,” he wailed. “Ah, Poiret, he will never be indebted to anyone again. Tell, Monsieur Ingoldmells, what Poiret should do. Can you not get the receipt from Monsieur Yelvertoft?”