The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales

by Charles Dickens

  Running my eye up and down the personal column, which has for years been my favorite reading of Sunday mornings, I found the usual assortment of matrimonial enterprises recorded: pathetic appeals from P. D. to meet Q. on the corner of Twenty-third Street at three; imploring requests from J. A. K. to return at once to “His Only Mother,” who promises to ask no questions; and finally—could I believe my eyes now riveted upon the word?—my own sobriquet, printed as boldly and as plainly as though I were some patent cure for all known human ailments. It seemed incredible, but there it was beyond all peradventure:

  “Wanted.—A Butler. BUNNY preferred. Apply to Mrs. A. J. Van Raffles, Bolivar Lodge, Newport, R.I.”

  To whom could that refer if not to myself, and what could it mean? Who was this Mrs. A. J. Van Raffles?—a name so like that of my dead friend that it seemed almost identical. My curiosity was roused to concert pitch. If this strange advertiser should be— But no, she would not send for me after that stormy interview in which she cast me over to take the hand of Raffles: the brilliant, fascinating Raffles, who would have won his Isabella from Ferdinand, Chloe from her Corydon, Pierrette from Pierrot—ay, even Heloise from Abelard. I never could find it in my heart to blame Henriette for losing her heart to him, even though she had already promised it to me, for I myself could not resist the fascination of the man at whose side I faithfully worked even after he had stolen from me this dearest treasure of my heart. And yet who else could it be if not the lovely Henriette? Surely the combination of Raffles, with or without the Van, and Bunny was not so usual as to permit of so remarkable a coincidence.

  “I will go to Newport at once,” I cried, rising and pacing the floor excitedly, for I had many times, in cursing my loneliness, dreamed of Henriette, and had oftener and oftener of late found myself wondering what had become of her, and then the helplessness of my position burst upon me with full force. How should I, the penniless wanderer in New York, get to Bolivar Lodge at Newport? It takes money in this sordid country to get about, even as it does in Britain—in sorry truth, things in detail differ little whether one lives under a king or a president; poverty is quite as hard to bear, and free passes on the railroad are just as scarce.

  “Curses on these plutocrats!” I muttered, as I thought of the railway directors rolling in wealth, running trains filled with empty seats to and from the spot that might contain my fortune, and I unable to avail myself of them for the lack of a paltry dollar or two. But suddenly the thought flashed over me—telegraph collect. If it is she, she will respond at once.

  And so it was that an hour later the following message was ticked over the wires:

  “Personal today’s Herald received. Telegraph railway fare and I will go to you instantly.

  (Signed), Bunny.”

  For three mortal hours I paced the streets feverishly awaiting the reply, and at two-thirty it came, disconcerting enough in all conscience:

  “If you are not a bogus Bunny you will know how to raise the cash. If you are a bogus Bunny I don’t want you.”

  It was simple, direct, and convincing, and my heart fluttered like the drum-beat’s morning call to action the moment I read it.

  “By Jove!” I cried. “The woman is right, of course. It must be Henriette, and I’ll go to her if I have to rob a nickel-in-the-slot machine.”

  It was as of old. Faint-hearted I always was until someone gave me a bit of encouragement. A word of praise or cheer from Raffles in the old days and I was ready to batter down Gibraltar, a bit of discouragement and a rag was armor-plate beside me.

  “’If you are not a bogus Bunny you will know,’” I read, spreading the message out before me. “That is to say, she believes that if I am really myself I can surmount the insurmountable. Gad! I’ll do it.” And I set off hot-foot up Fifth Avenue, hoping to discover, or by cogitation in the balmy air of the spring-time afternoon, to conceive of some plan to relieve my necessities. But, somehow or other, it wouldn’t come. There were no pockets about to be picked in the ordinary way. I hadn’t the fare for a ride on the surface or elevated cars, where I might have found an opportunity to relieve some traveller of his purse, and as for snatching such a thing from some shopper, it was Sunday and the women who would have been an easy prey on a bargain-day carried neither purse nor side-bag with them. I was in despair, and then the pealing bells of St. Jondy’s, the spiritual home of the multi-millionaires of New York, rang out the call to afternoon service. It was like an invitation—the way was clear. My plan was laid in an instant, and it worked beyond my most hopeful anticipations. Entering the church, I was ushered to a pew about halfway up the centre aisle—despite my poverty, I had managed to keep myself always well-groomed, and no one would have guessed, to look at my faultless frock-coat and neatly creased trousers, at my finely gloved hand and polished top-hat, that my pockets held scarcely a brass farthing. The service proceeded. A good sermon on the Vanity of Riches found lodgment in my ears, and then the supreme moment came. The collection-plate was passed, and, gripping my two pennies in my hand, I made as if to place them in the salver, but with studied awkwardness I knocked the alms-platter from the hands of the gentleman who passed it. The whole contents and the platter as well fell at my feet, and from my lips in reverent whispers poured forth no end of most abject apologies. Of course I assisted in recovering the fallen bills and coins, and in less time than it takes to tell it the vestryman was proceeding on his way up the aisle, gathering in the contributions from other generously disposed persons as he went, as unconsciously as though thecontretemps had never occurred, and happily unaware that out of the moneys cast to the floor by my awkward act two yellow-backed fifty-dollar bills, five half-dollars, and a dime remained behind under the hassock at my feet, whither I had managed to push them with my toe while offering my apologies.

  An hour later, having dined heartily at Delsherrico’s, I was comfortably napping in a Pullman car on my way to the Social Capital of the United States.

  II

  There is little need for me to describe in detail the story of my railway journey from New York to Newport. It was uneventful and unproductive save as to the latter end of it, when, on the arrival of the train at Wickford, observing that the prosperous-looking gentleman bound for Boston who occupied the seat next mine in the Pullman car was sleeping soundly, I exchanged my well-worn covert coat for his richly made, sable-lined surtout, and made off as well with his suit-case on the chance of its holding something that might later serve some one of my many purposes. I mention this in passing only because the suit-case, containing as it did all the essential features of a gentleman’s evening attire, even to three superb pearl studs in the bosom of an immaculately white shirt, all of them, marvellously enough, as perfectly fitting as though they had been made for me, with a hundred unregistered first-mortgage bonds of the United States Steel Company—of which securities there will be more anon—enabled me later to appear before Mrs. Van Raffles in a guise so prosperous as to win an immediate renewal of her favor.

  “We shall be almost as great a combination as the original, Bunny,” she cried, enthusiastically, when I told her of this coup. “With my brains and your blind luck nothing can stop us.”

  My own feelings as I drove up to Bolivar Lodge were mixed. I still loved Henriette madly, but the contrast between her present luxury and my recent misery grated harshly upon me. I could not rid myself of the notion that Raffles had told her of the secret hiding-place of the diamond stomacher of the duchess of Herringdale, and that she had appropriated to her own use all the proceeds of its sale, leaving me, who had risked my liberty to obtain it, without a penny’s worth of dividend for my pains. It did not seem quite a level thing to do, and I must confess that I greeted the lady in a reproachful spirit. It was, indeed, she, and more radiantly beautiful than ever—a trifle thinner perhaps, and her eyes more coldly piercing than seductively winning as of yore, but still Henriette whom I had once so madly loved and who had jilted me for a better man.

  “Dear o
ld Bunny!” she murmured, holding out both hands in welcome. “Just to think that after all these years and in a strange land and under such circumstances we should meet again!”

  “It is strange,” said I, my eye roving about the drawing-room, which from the point of view of its appointments and decoration was about the richest thing I had ever seen either by light of day or in the mysterious glimpses one gets with a dark lantern of the houses of the moneyed classes. “It seems more than strange,” I added, significantly, “to see you surrounded by such luxury. A so-called lodge built of the finest grade of Italian marble; gardens fit for the palace of a king; a retinue of servants such as one scarcely finds on the ducal estates of the proudest families of England and a mansion that is furnished with treasures of art, any one of which is worth a queen’s ransom.”

  “I do not wonder you are surprised,” she replied, looking about the room with a smile of satisfaction that did little to soothe my growing wrath.

  “It certainly leaves room for explanation,” I retorted, coldly. “Of course, if Raffles told you where the Herringdale jewels were hid and you have disposed of them, some of all this could be accounted for; but what of me? Did it ever occur to you that I was entitled to some part of the swag?”

  “Oh, you poor, suspicious old Bunny,” she rippled. “Haven’t I sent for you to give you some share of this—although truly you don’t deserve it, for this is all mine. I haven’t any more notion what became of the Herringdale jewels than the duchess of Herringdale herself.”

  “What?” I cried. “Then these surroundings—”

  “Are self-furnishing,” she said, with a merry little laugh, “and all through a plan of my own, Bunny. This house, as you may not be aware, is the late residence of Mr. and Mrs. Constant Scrappe—”

  “Who are suing each other for divorce,” I put in, for I knew of the Constant Scrappes in social life, as who did not, since a good third of the society items of the day concerned themselves with the matrimonial difficulties of this notable couple.

  “Precisely,” said Henriette. “Now Mrs. Scrappe is in South Dakota establishing a residence, and Colonel Scrappe is at Monte Carlo circulating his money with the aid of a wheel and a small ball. Bolivar Lodge, with its fine collection of old furniture, its splendid jades, its marvellous Oriental potteries, paintings, and innumerable small silver articles, is left here at Newport and for rent. What more natural, dear, than that I, needing a residence whose occupancy would in itself be an assurance of my social position, should snap it up with an eagerness which in this Newport atmosphere amounted nearly to a betrayal of plebeian origin?”

  “But it must cost a fortune!” I cried, gazing about me at the splendors of the room, which even to a cursory inspection revealed themselves as of priceless value. “That cloisonné jar over by the fireplace is worth two hundred pounds alone.”

  “That is just the reason why I wanted this particular house, Bunny. It is also why I need your assistance in maintaining it,” Mrs. Raffles returned.

  “Woman is ever a mystery,” I responded, with a harsh laugh. “Why in Heaven’s name you think I can help you to pay your rent—”

  “It is only twenty-five hundred dollars a month, Bunny,” she said.

  My answer was a roar of derisive laughter.

  “Hear her!” I cried, addressing the empty air. “Only twenty-five hundred dollars a month! Why, my dear Henriette, if it were twenty-five hundred clam-shells a century, I couldn’t help you pay a day’s rental, I am that strapped. Until this afternoon I hadn’t seen thirty cents all at once for nigh on to six months. I have been so poor that I’ve had to take my morning coffee at midnight from the coffee-wagons of the New York, Boston, and Chicago sporting papers. In eight months I have not tasted a table-d’hôte dinner that an expert would value at fifteen cents net, and yet you ask me to help you pay twenty-five hundred dollars a month rent for a Newport palace! You must be mad.”

  “You are the same loquacious old Bunny that you used to be,” said Mrs. Raffles, sharply, yet with a touch of affection in her voice. “You can’t keep your trap shut for a second, can you? Do you know, Bunny, what dear old A. J. said to me just before he went to South Africa? It was that if you were as devoted to business as you were to words you’d be a wonder. His exact remark was that we would both have to look out for you for fear you would queer the whole business. Raffles estimated that your habit of writing-up full accounts of his various burglaries for the London magazines had made the risks one hundred percent bigger and the available swag a thousand percent harder to get hold of. ‘Harry,’ said he the night before he sailed, ‘if I die over in the Transvaal and you decide to continue the business, get along as long as you can without a press-agent. If you go on the stage, surround yourself with ‘em, but in the burglary trade they are a nuisance.’”

  My answer was a sulky shrug of the shoulders.

  “You haven’t given me a chance to explain how you are to help me. I don’t ask you for money, Bunny. Four dollars’ worth of obedience is all I want,” she continued. “The portable property in this mansion is worth about half a million dollars, my lad, and I want you to be—well, my official porter. I took immediate possession of this house, and my first month’s rent was paid with the proceeds of a sale of three old bedsteads I found on the top floor, six pieces of Sèvres china from the southeast bedroom on the floor above this, and a Satsuma vase which I discovered in a hall-closet on the third floor.”

  A light began to dawn on me.

  “Before coming here I eked out a miserable existence in New York as buyer for an antique dealer on Fourth Avenue,” she explained. “He thinks I am still working for him, travelling about the country in search of bargains in high-boys, mahogany desks, antique tables, wardrobes, bedsteads—in short, valuable junk generally. Now do you see?”

  “As Mrs. Raffles—or Van Raffles, as you have it now?” I demanded.

  “Oh, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny! What a stupid you are! Never! As Miss Pratt-Robinson,” she replied. “From this I earn fifteen dollars a week. The sources of the material I send him—well—do you see now, Bunny?”

  “It is growing clearer,” said I. “You contemplate paying the rent of this house with its contents, is that it?”

  “What beautiful intelligence you have, Bunny!” she laughed, airily. “You know a hawk from a hand-saw. Nobody can pass a motor-car off on you for a horse, can they, Bunny dear? Not while you have that eagle eye of yours wide open. Yes, sir. That is the scheme. I am going to pay the rental of this mansion with its contents. Half a million dollars’ worth of contents means how long at twenty-five hundred dollars a month? Eh?”