‘Yes, damn him,’ snapped Lomas, turning to his in-tray.
At Westhampton Cottage Hospital, the matron received Mr Fortune portentously with hushed whispers and a crackling of starched uniform.
‘Sir Daniel Ferrers is here, Mr Fortune.’
‘Good-o,’ said he, pushing open the door of the isolation room, ‘I thought I recognized the Bentley outside.’ He shook hands with the eminent physician.
‘You’ll not save him now, Fortune,’ said he, indicating Rattu who was twitching and shivering in the bed.
‘Grateful to have your confirmation, Sir Daniel,’ replied Reggie meekly. ‘I may as well give him some morphine to ease the pain.’
‘Yes, indeed. Can do no harm now. You must excuse me: I have clients waiting.’ And Sir Daniel took his leave.
Next morning Lomas answered the phone.
‘Fortune here. Rattu’s dead. No near kinfolk... have sold family lawyer on rapid cremation and burial in family grave.’
‘What family grave?’
‘Whose d’you think? Uncle Samuel’s of course.’
After a dinner which was a paean of praise by Elise, his cook, and at which Reggie discoursed on claret and the growing of strawberries, he indicated to Mordan that it was time to be moving and ordered the car.
‘You aren’t driving, are you sir?’ said Mordan, alarmed, for Mr Fortune’s driving is a wonder of miraculous escapes.
‘No, be at peace, Mordan. Anxiety is bad for digesting the mullet. Gorton is driving us to the churchyard.’
The churchyard? At this time of night?’
‘Yes, we’re meeting Hanbury the sexton there.’
The church and graveyard were in darkness lit only by a gaslight at the street corner. A bitter north wind gave promise of snow to come, and as the two men got out of the car, a short, sturdy figure emerged from the darkness of the lich-gate.
‘Ah, Mr Hanbury,’ said Reggie. ‘Good man. Have you got the stuff?’
‘Yessir. I left it round by the grave what I opened up this arternoon. I’ll put the barrer away termorrer, sir. Thankee, sir.’ There came a clinking of silver coin and the good man lit his cycle lamps and pedalled off homeward.
Reggie next produced rubber gloves and hospital masks which, after some protest, he persuaded Mordan to put on. So accoutred, they entered the churchyard.
Mordan’s torch helped them follow the gravel path through the rows of gravestones to where a tarpaulin, a barrow and a mound of earth disfigured the winter grass.
‘Hold the torch on the hole, Mordan.’ Reggie pulled away the tarpaulin to reveal the remains of a damp and mould-stained coffin, its walls and top badly warped now they were released from the confining earth mould.
‘Uncle Sam, Mordan. Although there will be only ashes of Rattu to put here, I got Hanbury to dig down to the box.’
There was a dull sound as he wrenched away the crumbling lid, and Mordan directed his torch on to the occupant.
‘Strewth!’ he nearly dropped the torch.
In the torchlight, shaken by his trembling hand, the yellowy bones and sinews, covered by a tight-shrunken membraneous skin, were seen to be protruding through the soiled remains of clothing. Hair was still matted around the head and cheekbones.
Mr Fortune turned swiftly to the barrow and unscrewed the top from a can. He sloshed liquid liberally over the coffin and its contents, ignoring Mordan’s protests, and taking care not to spill any liquid outside the grave. A heavy smell of petroleum penetrated their masks.
‘Back now.’ He shoved Mordan so hard that he stumbled, and while he righted himself, Reggie produced a phial from his pocket. ‘Potassium chlorate, sugar and sulphuric acid,’ he commented. ‘When the inner tube breaks, up she goes.’ So saying, he tossed the phial lightly into the grave.
There came a chinking, cracking sound and a flash of flame shot skyward, throwing the churchyard into an instant of light.
For an instant, too, the simulacrum of a tall, bearded figure, its hands outstretched in rage or agony, reached out of the flame, as if to seize them ... and was as instantly gone. They were left to the feeble glow of the torch.
Reggie approached the edge of the grave and carefully placed a few shovelfuls of earth from the mound within the hole.
‘Once we have buried Mr Rattu there tomorrow, that will be the end of it,’ said he.
Mordan was shaking his head as they made their way back to the car.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Mr Fortune; making me an accessory...’
‘Accessory to what, Mordan? No crime... no sacrilege. Purification and release, same as Ayesha and Kallikrates. In any case I needed official presence in case the fire was seen.’
‘Who? Do you really believe that?’
‘Whom, you mean. Never mind. Yes, I do believe it as a matter of fact.’
Inspector Mordan sniffed suspiciously. ‘Coincidence Mr Rattu dying like that. You’d never have got in exhumation order to dig out the grave otherwise.’ He peered at his young companion as they got into the car. ‘Almost providential.’
‘Don’t press it, Mordan,’ sighed Reggie, leaning back. ‘You’ll catch me out one day.’
‘But what do I tell the CID of this?’ gasped the Inspector.
‘Nothing at all, if you’ve any sense,’ said Reggie. ‘Home Gorton!’
RED LILY - Dick Donovan
‘Dick Donovan’ was the pseudonym and alter ego of J. E. P. Muddock (1843-1934), author of more than fifty mystery and detective volumes—many starring Donovan himself—and a frequent contributor to the Strand and most other popular magazines of the period. ‘Red Lily’ is taken from Donovan’s rare collection, Tales of Terror (1899).
On one of the wildest nights for which the Bay of Biscay is notorious, the sailing ship Sirocco was ploughing her way under close-reefed topsails across that stormy sea. The Sirocco was a large, full-rigged vessel, bound from Bombay towards England, her destination being London. She had a mixed cargo, though a large percentage of it was composed of jute. Four months had passed since she cleared from her port of lading, and was towed out of the beautiful harbour of Bombay in a dead calm. For many days after the tug left her the Sirocco did nothing but drift with the current. She was as ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’ No breath came out of the sultry heavens to waft her towards her haven in far away England. It was a bad beginning to the voyage. The time was about the middle of August, and all on board were anxiously looking forward to reaching their destination in time to spend Christmas at home. But as August wore out and September came in, and still the horrid calms continued, pleasant anticipations gave place to despair, for many a thousand leagues of watery wastes had to be sailed before the white cliffs of Albion would gladden the eyes of the wanderers.
The crew of the vessel numbered sixty hands all told, and in addition there were twenty saloon passengers. With two of these passengers we have now to deal. The one is a fair young girl, slender, tall, and delicate. She is exceedingly pretty. Her features are regular and delicately chiselled. Her hair is a soft, wavy, golden brown and her brown eyes are as liquid and gentle as a fawn’s. The pure whiteness of her neck and temples is contrasted by the most exquisite tinge of rose colour in the cheeks, which puts, as it were, a finish upon a perfect picture. The whiteness of her skin, the delicate flush in the face, the brown, flossy hair, the tall, slender, graceful figure were all so suggestive of the purest of flowers that her friends for many years had called her ‘Red Lily’. Her name was Lily Hetherington, and she yet wanted some months to the completion of her twenty-first birthday. Lily was the daughter of an officer of the Hon. East India Company’s Service—his only daughter, and by him worshipped. For many years he had been stationed in India, and at last, seeing no chance of returning to his wife and family, which consisted of two sons in addition to the girl, he requested them to join him in the East. This request was quickly and gladly complied with, and Mrs Hetherington and her children started on their journey. Mr Heth
erington at that time was well off, for he had invested all his savings in the Agra and Masterman Bank, and held shares to a large amount in the concern, the stability of which, at that period, no one would have dared to have doubted. Indian officers throughout India swore by it, and they congratulated themselves, as they entrusted their hard-won money to the Bank, that they were making splendid provision for their wives and children when those wives and children should become widows and orphans.
As Mr Hetherington possessed considerable influence he had no difficulty in quickly procuring his sons suitable appointments. Fond as he was of his lads, who were aged respectively twenty-two and twenty-four, his love for them was as nothing when compared with that he bore for his beautiful daughter, his ‘Bonnie Red Lily’, as he called her. Nor was Lily less fond of her father. She was a mere child when he left England, but she had never forgotten him, and never a mail left but it bore from Lily a long and loving epistle to the lonely officer, who was bravely doing his duty in the distant eastern land.
One day, soon after her arrival, Mr Hetherington said to his daughter as they sat in the verandah of the bungalow, ‘Lily, my pet, I have got a little surprise for you.’
‘Have you, pa dear; and pray what is it?’ she answered. ‘You are such a dear, good kind papa that you are always giving me pleasant surprises.’
‘Well, yes, of course, I like to give you pleasant surprises, but this one is different from any of the others,’ he returned with a smile, at the same time stroking her soft brown hair, and looking proudly into her beautiful face.
‘Oh, do tell me what it is,’ she exclaimed, as he paused in a tantalizing way; ‘do you hear, pa? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Restrain that woman’s curiosity of yours, my darling, and don’t be impatient.’
‘I declare you are awfully wicked, papa,’ she returned, with a pretty pout of her red lips. ‘Tell me instantly what it is. I demand to know.’
‘And so you shall,’ he answered, as he kissed her fondly and patted her head. ‘Tomorrow, then, I have a visitor coming to stay with us for a week or two.’
‘Indeed. Is it a lady or gentleman?’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Oh, do tell me what he’s like.’
‘Well, well, you are a little Miss Curious,’ Mr Hetherington laughed heartily as he blew a cloud of blue smoke from his cigar into the stagnant air. ‘Not to keep you in suspense any longer, then, the name of my visitor is Dick Fenton, Richard Cronmire Joyce Fenton, to give him his full name. He is a year or two your senior, and a fine, handsome, manly young fellow to boot.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Lily, thoughtfully, as she fancied that her father’s words had a hidden meaning.
‘Yes. His father was a very old friend of mine, and we saw long service together. He died some four or five years ago, but before dying he made me promise I would look after his boy, who was an only child and motherless. Of course, I gladly gave this promise, and have sacredly carried it out.’
‘Ah, what a good, kind, generous man you are,’ Lily said, as she nestled closer to him, and tightened her little white fingers round his brown, hairy hand.
‘I saw there was stuff in the lad, and I took to him almost as if he had been my own son. Unfortunately, my good friend Fenton died poor, and was only enabled to leave three thousand pounds, for which he had insured his life, for his son’s education. I succeeded in getting Dick into one of the Company’s training establishments, and the marked ability he displayed very soon pushed him forward, and having gone through his cadetship with honour and credit, he was appointed a year ago to what in time will be a most lucrative post. I have watched the lad closely, and seen with pride the many noble qualities he possesses, and I have no doubt at all he will distinguish himself. During the years that he has been my protégé have constantly said to myself, “If my Lily should like Dick, and Dick should like my Lily, they shall be man and wife.” ‘
‘Oh, papa!’ exclaimed Lily, as the beautiful tinge in her face deepened to scarlet, that spread to her neck and temples.
‘Why, my darling, why do you blush so? It is surely every honest woman’s desire to become a wife, and I am very anxious to see you comfortably married before I die. Men go off very suddenly in this treacherous country, and I am well worn with service, and cannot hope to last much longer. But, understand me, Lily, pet, your own will and womanly instincts must guide you in this matter. I shall not seek to influence you in any way, and if you have already given your heart to another, if he is an honest and worthy man, even though he be poor as a church mouse, I shall not offer the slightest opposition to your wishes. It is your future happiness I study, and I am not selfish enough to attempt to coerce you into an objectionable union.’
Lily rose and twined her arms round her father’s neck, and pressing her soft, white face to his bronzed cheeks, said:
‘My dear, dear father, I have not given my heart to anyone, and your wishes are mine.’
On the morrow Fenton duly arrived at Mr Hetherington’s bungalow. He had travelled by dak from a station near Calcutta; and when he had refreshed himself with a bath, and made himself presentable, Hetherington took him on one side, and said:
‘Dick, lad, I have repeatedly spoken to you about my daughter, and before I introduce you to her, let me say that I shall be proud to have you as a son-in-law, providing that there is the most perfect reciprocal feeling between you and my Lily. I am not a man of many words, and I will content myself with remarking that your father was the very soul of honour. Never disgrace him, and never betray the confidence I repose in you.’
‘Do not doubt me, sir,’ said Dick. ‘I am indebted to you for everything, and I should be base if I did anything that could inflict pain upon you or yours.’
‘Bravely said, my boy. God prosper you. Win Lily if you can; but win her as a man should.’
Hetherington had previously made known his wishes to his wife, and she had readily acquiesced in them.
Fenton was, as his guardian had described him, a fine, manly, handsome young fellow. His frank, open bearing was well calculated to find favour with women, even if he had not been possessed of good looks.
Hetherington and his wife watched the young people narrowly, and they soon saw that a mutual liking for each other was springing up, and before Dick’s leave of two months had expired he and Lily were betrothed, while the bond between them was that of the most perfect love.
Dick returned to his station, and Mr and Mrs Hetherington congratulated themselves on having, so far as they were able, provided for their daughter’s future, a future that seemed likely to be one of unclouded happiness. ‘L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose’ says the French proverb, and never was the proverb more fully borne out than in this case. Within six months of Dick’s return to his duties, all civilized India was shocked to its inmost heart by a terrific commercial convulsion—for so only can it be described. Through the length and breadth of the land, the fearful rumour spread on the wings of the wind that the great bank of Agra and Masterman had broken. Men stood aghast, and women paled with fright, for, to hundreds and thousands of households in all parts of the world, it meant utter ruin, as many and many a one at the present day knows to his bitter cost. Many a widow living in poverty now might have reposed in the lap of luxury, and many a young man and woman, now in ignorance and want, might have been otherwise but for this cruel collapse of the great banking firm. It was so essentially an Indian bank, a depository for the earnings of Indian servants of the Company, that it affected a class of people who for the most part had been tenderly nurtured and led to believe that they occupied, and were destined to occupy so long as they might live, a good position in life, and to take their stand among the great middle class of society.
At first men doubted the rumour, but soon the awful truth became too apparent to be longer questioned, and those who had grown grey and feeble beneath the burning Indian sun saw now that their few remaining days must be passed in poverty and mise
ry. It was bitter, very bitter, but it was fate, and could not be averted.
Amongst the greatest sufferers was Mr Hetherington. He had invested, one way and another, nearly one hundred thousand pounds in that bank, and now every penny piece was gone. The shock came upon him with great severity. His health had long been failing, and he had looked forward with great eagerness to retiring from the service in another year and ‘going home’ with his family. But that was never to be now. For a time he was stunned. He tried to bear up against the blow, but he was only human; his brain gave way, and in a moment of temporary aberration he shot himself.
This new grief almost crushed the unhappy widow and her family. Fortunately ‘the boys’ had good appointments that held out every promise of improvement, but their incomes at that time were scarcely sufficient for their own needs, though they generously curtailed their expenses in every way in order to contribute towards the support of their sister and mother.
The shock of her father’s death threw Lily into a dangerous illness, and for some time her life was threatened; but there was one who never lost an opportunity of cheering her with his love, and that was Dick Fenton.
When she was convalescent she one day said to him:
‘Dick, I have something to say to you.’
‘Nothing very serious, darling,’ he answered, laughingly.
‘Yes, very serious. When I was first engaged to you my father was considered to be a wealthy man, and I understand that he promised you that my dowry should be something handsome. That is all changed now. We are ruined, and my dear father is in his grave. Under these circumstances I can no longer hold you to your engagement, and therefore release you from every promise. You must give me up and seek for someone better suited for you than I am.’
She fairly broke down here, and burst into violent weeping. Dick’s arm stole around her waist, he pressed her head to his breast, and, whispering softly to her said, with deep earnestness:
‘Lily, there is one thing, and only one thing, that shall break our engagement.’
Richard Dalby (ed) Page 20
