He paused.
“But they were removed, Monsieur, and the benefits have descended. The war appeared. Both sons of Lord Winton lost their lives in it; Lord Winton is himself murdered; and you come, Monsieur, from a paupered kingdom of southeastern Europe to be a peer of England with an immense estate. Even the American granddaughter of Lord Winton takes nothing under this extraordinary English law of entail. Would you call this chance, Monsieur?”
Lord Valleys found no difficulty at all with the inquiry. He replied directly.
“Monsieur,” he said, “it was all clearly chance except the murder of Lord Winton. That was, of course, design—a design which the wise English authorities attributed to me, and which they spared no effort to fix upon me. That they were unable to do so is not, I think, attributable to this thing which you call Providence. It is attributable rather, I think, to the intelligence of my legal counsel and to myself.”
He looked directly at Monsieur Jonquelle. His big, placid face lifted; his voice was even and unhurried.
“I am not embarrassed to discuss it, Monsieur,” he continued. “When the war had ended with the death of Lord Winton’s sons, I was, by virtue of what you have so aptly called ‘the accident of birth’, next in succession to the title. I thought it both advisable and courteous to present myself to Lord Winton, and I went to England for that purpose.
“Lord Winton was an eccentric person. As he grew older, and after the death of his sons, his eccentricity became more dominant. I did not find him on his estates at Ravenscroft; he was at this time in London in a little old house which the family has always owned in a street toward Covent Garden.
“On the night that I called to see Lord Winton, it was quite late. I found him alone in the house. He seemed disturbed to see me, but he was courteous, and I cannot complain of his welcome. He seemed, however, not to realize that I had grown into a man. He seemed to regard me as a queer, foreign lad to whom he owed some obligation of hospitality.”
Lord Valleys stopped. He leaned a little forward in the chair, and his voice took on a firmer note.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I am saying to you now a thing to which I testified at the English trial, and which was not believed. Lord Winton told me that he expected a person to call on him within a very few minutes and to remain for perhaps an hour. He asked me to return at the end of an hour. I got up to go. As I went down the stairway, a motor, entering the street from the direction of the City, stopped before the door. The door was closed but the sound was clearly audible.
“Lord Winton, who was behind me, also came down the steps. On a console in the hall were several candles which the servants, according to custom, had placed there. An idea came to Lord Winton, for he stopped me as my hand was on the door to go out. He took up one of these candles in a tall brass candlestick, and touching me on the arm, handed it to me.
“‘Instead of going out,’ he said, ‘suppose you go down into the wine cellar. There should be some bottles of Burgundy of a famous year stored there by your grandfather. See if you can find them, and we shall have a glass of wine with our talk. I have a great deal to say to you, my nephew. The wine will sustain us.’
“You will see, Monsieur, that this idea that I was merely a grown-up lad, come to visit an ancient relative, was quite fixed with Lord Winton. As the servants had gone out, he was sending me, as though I were a lad from Eton, to find the wine for our conversation. He gave me the key, a direction about the steps and doors. He even said there was a box of biscuit on the dining room table which I should bring up. It was all, you see, Monsieur, quite as though I were an under-graduate from some English public school.”
The man looked down at his firm, placid hands resting upon and obscuring the arms of the chair in which he sat.
“This, Monsieur,” he said, “is a portion of my evidence which the English criminal court refused to believe. It was incredibly stupid!”
Monsieur Jonquelle looked up sharply at that sentence.
“The English criminal court,” he said, “was even more stupid than you imagine. It was, as you have said, ‘incredibly stupid.’”
Lord Valleys made no comment.
“There was only my word for the statement,” he said. “I could not prove it, and yet it was the truth.”
The man was startled by Monsieur Jonquelle’s reply. One knew that, although one would have been troubled to describe the evidence.
“It is precisely the truth,” said Monsieur Jonquelle.
Lord Valleys looked steadily at the Prefect for a moment before he spoke.
“I regret, Monsieur,” he said, “that you were not present in that English court.”
The man looked down again at his wonderful hands, steel strong, and as supple as silk; then he went on:
“It happened, however, that this chance, which you question in human affairs, came to my aid. One of the Metropolitan police on duty on this night in the neighborhood of Covent Garden saw a motor drive away from Lord Winton’s door. The time, as nearly as could be fixed, corresponded with the hour which I had indicated in my testimony. And for the first time in the course of the criminal trial, the case for the Crown was shaken. Neither my solicitors nor the Crown were able to discover anything further. The driver of the motor could not be located, and the one who called that night upon Lord Winton remained a mystery.”
Lord Valleys continued to speak deliberately and without emotion.
“I do not know who this person, with whom Lord Winton had a midnight appointment, could have been, and I do not know what occurred at that mysterious conference, except, of course, the resultant tragedy, which was afterwards known to every one.
“I took the candle which Lord Winton gave me and went along the hall to the stairway, which descended into the basement of the house. I had in my hand the key to the wine cellar.
“The last I saw of Lord Winton in his life was his tall, bowed back as he stooped to open the door, his hand on the latch. He seemed a sort of heavy shadow outlined against the door in the dim light of the gas jet that burned feebly, lighting the hall behind him.”
He made a vague gesture, lifting one of his hands softly from the arm of the chair.
“Here, Monsieur, chance or my intelligence failed me. If I had remained a moment—if, in fact, I had looked back as I went down the stairway at the end of the hall, I should have seen Lord Winton’s assassin.”
The Prefect of Police made no comment, and Lord Valleys continued:
“After some little difficulty, I finally found the door to the wine cellar, opened it and entered. It was very old—one of those huge stone cells which the early English built in their houses in which to store the choice wines of France.
“It seemed to me that this wine cellar had not been entered in a long time. I was mistaken in this impression. Fortunately for me, it had, from time to time, been looked into by Lord Winton’s manservant. I have said ‘fortunately,’ because this manservant, Staley, was able to confirm my statement.
“The whole of the low vault was cluttered with straw, piled and heaped with it, like a farmer’s rick. It was this aspect of the place that gave me the impression that it had not been entered for a long time. And it was true that it had not been disturbed for a long time. The walls and the floor of this cellar were stone; the ceiling was of wood crossed with beams dried out like tinder, and the bins, as I have said, were heaped with the straw in which innumerable wine cases had been packed.
“Lord Winton had described the wine which he wished so that I could not mistake it. But he was not certain in which bin it was to be found, and I had to make a search of very nearly the whole of the cellar. This did not disturb me, for Lord Winton had fixed an hour as the length of the visit of the person whom he expected, and who, in fact, had arrived. And I was not to return until that time. It was, as nearly as I can determine, about eleven o’clock of the night when I went down the steps to the wine cellar.”
The man remained silent a moment as if in some contem
plation. Finally he continued:
“An unfortunate accident occurred. In rising from a bin over which I had been stooped, the candle touched a wisp of straw hanging from above, and immediately the dried-out, half-rotten wood of the beamed ceiling flashed into flame.”
He paused again.
“I was appalled, but I did not lose my sense of necessity. I undertook to put the fire out. I made a desperate effort against it, there in that underground cell, for I knew the house must burn if this whole wood ceiling took fire. The place filled with smoke. It became very nearly impossible to breathe, but I did not give up the fight against the fire. Finally when I was blinded, choked and very nearly unconscious, I broke open the door leading from the basement of the house and ran out into the street. It seemed that I should never breathe, and I continued to run.
“You know what followed. I was taken up by one of the Metropolitan police; the burning house was entered, and Lord Winton brought out. He was dead! The small blade of a knife had been driven into his body low down on the right side. The wound, ranging upward, was deep. It had severed a vital artery.”
Lord Valleys got up. He did it softly and apparently without any effort, as one merely changes his position in a chair. He had been seated, and instantly he was standing. He had the aspect of one intending to accomplish some act in the room, but pausing to complete his story before he went forward.
“It was to be expected, Monsieur, that the English court under these circumstances would try me for the murder of Lord Winton. I had both the motive and the opportunity to accomplish it, and the circumstances were, to say the least, indicative. And I should have been convicted for that murder but for two directions in which chance helped me, and a third in which the intelligence of my legal counsel was able to establish my innocence beyond any question.
“To my surprise, this manservant, Staley, came forward to establish the fact that the wine cellar was little less than a straw rick, and this Metropolitan police officer appeared to say that he had seen the motor leaving Lord Winton’s door shortly before the fire was discovered. These facts indicated the truth of my statement.
“A further fact brought out by my legal advisers established with mathematical accuracy the fact that I had not dealt Lord Winton the blow that ejected him out of life. The wound which had caused his death had been made with the small blade of a knife. The police found in my pocket a knife with a small blade, a blade of about the width of the wound. No evidence of blood was found on this knife, but the police professed to believe that it had been carefully washed. They thought traces of moisture remained on it. The case seemed convincing. I myself realized its gravity, and but for one fact a conviction might have followed. The autopsy showed that the wound which had caused the death of Lord Winton was seven inches deep. The handle of the knife with which it had been accomplished had not entered the wound. The wound was no larger than the width of the small knife blade at its exterior point.”
Lord Valleys suddenly extended his hand, like one who puts down something that is finished.
“It therefore followed, Monsieur, with mathematical accuracy that no verbal conjecture could ever obscure, that the knife blade with which this wound had been accomplished was at least seven inches in length. The knife blade found on my person by the Metropolitan police was only four inches in length. It was, therefore, certain, as certain as only a mathematical calculation can be certain, that Lord Winton was not killed with the knife which I carried.
“And I was therefore acquitted.… You know, Monsieur, what the English law courts say: ‘A man may lie, but circumstances cannot.’ I may have lied, and Lord Winton’s manservant and the Metropolitan police who saw the motor drive away on that night; but the science of mathematics could not lie. A wound seven inches deep could not be made with a knife-blade four inches long. And the case ended.”
He went over to a table, got a tortoise shell box delicately inlaid with silver, opened it and presented it to Monsieur Jonquelle.
“You will have a cigarette, Monsieur?” he said.
It is also possible that he wished to see what it was that Monsieur Jonquelle observed on the opposite side of the street. For some time he had occasionally looked that way. Nothing was to be observed there—women, children passed, Two young men, elegantly dressed, coming up on either side, had stopped and were engaged in some animated discourse.
Monsieur Jonquelle took the cigarette, and Lord Valleys went back to the chair.
“Monsieur,” said the Prefect of Police, “do you have any idea who this mysterious assassin of Lord Winton was?”
“I do not,” replied Lord Valleys. “There was much conjecture at the trial, but it was all wholly conjecture. It must, however, have been some powerful person, because the assassin must have held Lord Winton with one hand and driven in the knife with the other. The experts pretended to find evidence of bruised places, as from a powerful hand.”
Then suddenly, as out of some inciting memory, the man’s voice changed.
“A moment ago, Monsieur, when I mentioned the arrival of the visitor at Lord Winton’s house, and the doubt of the English court of that fact, you said it was true. How do you know that it was true, if I may be permitted to inquire?”
The Prefect of Police balanced the cigarette a moment in his fingers before he replied.
“I know your statement about the motor is true, Monsieur, because I know who it was that came to Lord Winton on that night. And, Monsieur, it is on behalf of this person that I have come to you to-day.”
Lord Valleys was astonished, but he did not move, and his expression did not change.
“You amaze me,” he said. “Upon what mission from this mysterious person could you come to me?”
“Upon the same mission,” replied the Prefect of Police, “with which that person went on the fatal night to Lord Winton’s house in Covent Garden. Lord Winton promised to do a certain thing for this, as you call it, ‘mysterious person.’ He died before it could be carried out, and I have now come to you to fulfill it. I trust, Monsieur, that you will not deny me.”
Lord Valleys’ astonishment was now profound, but he continued to give no evidence of it. His voice remained low and conventional.
“Monsieur,” he said, “this suggestion seems preposterous. Why should I carry out something which Lord Winton promised, and why should you come to me from his assassin?”
“I do not come to you from his assassin,” replied Monsieur Jonquelle, “but I do come to you to carry out what he promised. As you have taken the properties and the title of Lord Winton, you should assume, also, his obligations.”
Monsieur Jonquelle rose. He took a folded, legal paper out of his pocket and presented it to Lord Valleys.
“Monsieur,” he said, “Lord Winton promised to execute this indenture. He died before his signature could be attached to it. I must ask you to execute it in his stead.”
Suddenly, as once before on this morning, Lord Valleys, who had been seated the instant before, was now, with no motion that seemed visible to the eye, standing on his feet. He came forward, took the paper which Monsieur Jonquelle held in his hand, and going over to the table, unfolded it and stooped over it. He was some time in an inspection of the document, and in the meantime Monsieur Jonquelle had made a gesture, as of one flicking the ashes from a cigarette through the open window into the Bois de Boulogne. The two young men in their animated discussion instantly crossed the street and entered the house.
Presently Lord Valleys rose from his stooped posture. He was shaken with astonishment, but there was of this astonishment no visible element, either in his appearance or in his voice.
“Monsieur,” he said, “this is a deed drawn by an English solicitor, conveying all of Lord Winton’s estates in England to his granddaughter, Barbara Westridge. Why, Monsieur, should I convey these estates to this American girl? They have descended to me by inheritance. One does not alienate his lands without a cause.”
“I will suggest a reason,�
� replied Monsieur Jonquelle. “This is in accordance with Lord Winton’s promise. You stand now in Lord Winton’s stead, and as I have said, you have received his benefits, and you should assume his obligations.”
Lord Valleys looked at the Prefect of Police.
“You do not suggest a legal obligation, I imagine.”
“I do not,” replied Monsieur Jonquelle. “But I suggest that the moral reason is compelling, and you will not deny me!”
Lord Valleys smiled—that vague smile which seemed not to disturb the features of his face. He folded the deed together in his hand.
“You must permit me to decline, Monsieur,” he said.
He paused a moment, and the background of his face hardened.
“And you must overlook it, Monsieur,” he said, “if I feel that your whole suggestion with respect to this matter is not convincing. This girl could not have assassinated Lord Winton.”
“She could not,” replied Monsieur Jonquelle. “Lord Winton was killed by some powerful assassin who seized him, compressed his body and drove in the knife.”
He turned now toward Lord Valleys, his face firm.
“Monsieur,” he said, “will you carry out the obligation of Lord Winton and leave the matter of his assassin a mystery, or will you refuse it and have that mystery solved?”
The man at the table looked strangely at Monsieur Jonquelle. He had the aspect of a creature of great strength, concerned always with concealing it. He was puzzled and disturbed, but his voice did not change.
“You know, then, the assassin of Lord Winton?”
“I do,” replied the Prefect. “Shall I name him to you?”
The man made again the vague gesture with his white, steel fingers.
“You may keep the secret of the name, Monsieur,” he said, “if you will be kind enough to tell me the thing that indicated to you the name.”
Monsieur Jonquelle Page 16
