The Seven Secrets

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XIV.

  IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS.

  The dark days of the London winter brightened into spring, but themystery of old Mr. Courtenay's death remained an enigma inexplicableto police and public. Ambler Jevons had prosecuted independentinquiries assiduously in various quarters, detectives had watched thesubsequent movements of Short and the other servants, but all to nopurpose. The sudden disappearance of Short was discovered to be due tothe illness of his brother.

  The identity of the assassin, as well as the mode in which theextraordinary wound had been inflicted, both remained mysteriesimpenetrable.

  At Guy's we were a trifle under-staffed, and my work was consequentlyheavy; while, added to that, Sir Bernard was suffering from theeffects of a severe chill, and had not been able to come to town fornearly a month. Therefore, I had been kept at it practically night andday, dividing my time between the hospital, Harley Street, and my ownrooms. I saw little of my friend Jevons, for his partner had beenordered to Bournemouth for his health, and therefore his constantattendance at his office in Mark Lane was imperative. Ambler had nowbut little leisure save on Sundays, when we would usually dinetogether at the Cavour, the Globe, the Florence, or some other foreignrestaurant.

  Whenever I spoke to him of the tragedy, he would sigh, his face wouldassume a puzzled expression, and he would declare that the affairutterly passed his comprehension. Once or twice he referred toEthelwynn, but it struck me that he did not give tongue to what passedwithin his mind for fear of offending me. His methods were based onpatience, therefore I often wondered whether he was still secretly atwork upon the case, and if so, whether he had gained any additionalfacts. Yet he told me nothing. It was a mystery, he said--that wasall.

  Of Ethelwynn I saw but little, making my constant occupation with SirBernard's patients my excuse. She had taken up her abode with Mrs.Henniker--the cousin at whose house Mary had stayed on the night ofthe tragedy. The furniture at Richmond Road had been removed and thehouse advertised for sale, young Mrs. Courtenay having moved to heraunt's house in the country, a few miles from Bath.

  On several occasions I had dined at Redcliffe Square, finding bothMrs. Henniker and her husband extremely agreeable. Henniker waspartner in a big brewing concern at Clapham, and a very good fellow;while his wife was a middle-aged, fair-haired woman, of the type whoshop of afternoons in High Street, Kensington. Ethelwynn had alwaysbeen a particular favourite with both, hence she was a welcome guestat Redcliffe Square. Old Mr. Courtenay had had business relations withHenniker a couple of years before, and a slight difference had led toan open quarrel. For that reason they had not of late visited at Kew.

  On the occasions I had spent the evening with Ethelwynn at their houseI had watched her narrowly, yet neither by look nor by action did shebetray any sign of a guilty secret. Her manner had during those weekschanged entirely; for she seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed,and although she alluded but seldom to our love, she treated me withthat same sweet tenderness as before the fatal night of herbrother-in-law's assassination.

  I must admit that her attitude, although it inspired me with a certainamount of confidence, nevertheless caused me to ponder deeply. I knewenough of human nature to be aware that it is woman's metier to keepup appearances. Was she keeping up an appearance of innocence,although her heart was blackened by a crime?

  One evening, when we chanced to be left alone in the littlesmoking-room after dinner, she suddenly turned to me, saying:

  "I've often thought how strange you must have thought my visit to yourrooms that night, Ralph. It was unpardonable, I know--only I wanted towarn you of that man."

  "Of Sir Bernard?" I observed, laughing.

  "Yes. But it appears that you have not heeded me," she sighed. "Ifear, Ralph, that you will regret some day."

  "Why should I regret? Your fears are surely baseless."

  "No," she answered decisively. "They are not baseless. I havereasons--strong ones--for urging you to break your connexion with him.He is no friend to you."

  I smiled. I knew quite well that he was no friend of hers. Once ortwice of late he had said in that peevish snappy voice of his:

  "I wonder what that woman, Mrs. Courtenay's sister, is doing? I hearnothing of her."

  I did not enlighten him, for I had no desire to hear her maligned. Iknew the truth myself sufficiently well.

  But turning to her I looked straight into her dark luminous eyes,those eyes that held me always as beneath their spell, saying:

  "He has proved himself my best friend, up to the present. I have noreason to doubt him."

  "But you will have. I warn you."

  "In what manner, then, is he my enemy?"

  She hesitated, as though half-fearing to respond to my question.Presently she said:

  "He is my enemy--and therefore yours."

  "Why is he your enemy?" I asked, eager to clear up a point which hadso long puzzled me.

  "I cannot tell," she responded. "One sometimes gives offence and makesenemies without being aware of it."

  The evasion was a clever one. Another illustration of tactfulingenuity.

  By dint of careful cross-examination I endeavoured to worm from herthe secret of my chief's antagonism, but she was dumb to everyinquiry, fencing with me in a manner that would have done credit to apolice-court solicitor. Though sweet, innocent, and intenselycharming, yet there was a reverse side of her character, strong,firm-minded, almost stern in its austerity.

  I must here say that our love, once so passionate and displayed byfond kisses and hand-pressing, in the usual manner of lovers, hadgradually slackened. A kiss on arrival and another on departure wasall the demonstration of affection that now passed between us. Idoubted her; and though I strove hard to conceal my true feelings, Ifear that my coldness was apparent, not only to her but to theHennikers also. She had complained of it when she called at my rooms,and certainly she had full reason for doing so. I am not one of thosewho can feign love. Some men can; I cannot.

  Thus it will be seen that although a certain coolness had arisenbetween us, in a manner that seemed almost mutual, we werenevertheless the best of friends. Once or twice she dined with me at arestaurant, and went to a play afterwards, on such occasions remarkingthat it seemed like "old times," in the early days of our blissfullove. And sometimes she would recall those sweet halcyon hours, untilI felt a pang of regret that my trust in her had been shaken by thatletter found among the dead man's effects and that tiny piece ofchenille. But I steeled my heart, because I felt assured that thetruth must out some day.

  Mine was a strange position for any man. I loved this woman, remember;loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. Yet that letterpenned by her had shown me that she had once angled for larger spoils,and was not the sweet unsophisticated woman I had always supposed herto be. It showed me, too, that in her heart had rankled a fierce,undying hatred.

  Because of this I did not seek her society frequently, but occupiedmyself diligently with my patients--seeking solace in my work, as manyanother professional man does where love or domestic happiness isconcerned. There are few men in my profession who have not had theiraffairs of the heart, many of them serious ones. The world never knowshow difficult it is for a doctor to remain heart-whole. Sometimes hislady patients deliberately set themselves to capture him, and willspeak ill-naturedly of him if he refuses to fall into their net. Atothers, sympathy with a sufferer leads to a flirtation duringconvalescence, and often a word spoken in jest in order to cheer istaken seriously by romantic girls who believe that to marry a doctoris to attain social status and distinction.

  Heigho! When I think of all my own little love episodes, and of theingenious diplomacy to which I have been compelled to resort in orderto avoid tumbling into pitfalls set by certain designing Daughters ofEve, I cannot but sympathise with every other medical man who is onthe right side of forty and sound of wind and limb. There is not adoctor in all the long list in the medical register who could notrelate strange stories of his own
love episodes--romances which havesometimes narrowly escaped developing into tragedies, and plotsconcocted by women to inveigle and to allure. It is so easy for awoman to feign illness and call in the doctor to chat to her and amuseher. Lots of women in London do that regularly. They will play with adoctor's heart as a sort of pastime, while the unfortunate medicooften cannot afford to hold aloof for fear of offending. If he does,then evil gossip will spread among his patients and his practice maysuffer considerably; for in no profession does a man rely so entirelyupon his good name and a reputation for care and integrity as in thatof medicine.

  I do not wish it for a moment to be taken that I am antagonistic towomen, or that I would ever speak ill of them. I merely refer to themean method of some of the idling class, who deliberately call in thedoctor for the purpose of flirtation and then boast of it to theirintimates. To such, a man's heart or a man's future are of noconsequence. The doctor is easily visible, and is therefore theeasiest prey to all and sundry.

  In my own practice I had had a good deal of experience of it. And I amnot alone. Every other medical man, if not a grey-headed fossil or awizened woman-hater, has had similar episodes; many strange--some evenstartling.

  Reader, in this narrative of curious events and remarkable happenings,I am taking you entirely and completely into my confidence. I seek toconceal nothing, nor to exaggerate in any particular, but to presentthe truth as a plain matter-of-fact statement of what actuallyoccurred. I was a unit among a hundred thousand others engaged in thepractice of medicine, not more skilled than the majority, even thoughSir Bernard's influence and friendship had placed me in a position ofprominence. But in this brief life of ours it is woman who makes usdance as puppets on our miniature stage, who leads us to brilliantsuccess or to black ruin, who exalts us above our fellows or hurls usinto oblivion. Woman--always woman.

  Since that awful suspicion had fallen upon me that the hand that hadstruck old Mr. Courtenay was that soft delicate one that I had sooften carried to my lips, a blank had opened in my life. Consumed byconflicting thoughts, I recollected how sweet and true had been ouraffection; with what an intense passionate love-look she had gazedupon me with those wonderful eyes of hers; with what wild fiercepassion her lips would meet mine in fond caress.

  Alas! it had all ended. She had acted a lie to me. That letter toldthe bitter truth. Hence, we were gradually drifting apart.

  One Sunday morning in May, just as I had finished my breakfast andflung myself into an armchair to smoke, as was my habit on the day ofrest, my man entered, saying that Lady Twickenham had sent to ask if Icould go round to Park Lane at once. Not at all pleased with thiscall, just at a moment of laziness, I was, nevertheless, obliged torespond, because her ladyship was one of Sir Bernard's best patients;and suffering as she was from a malignant internal complaint, I knewit was necessary to respond at once to the summons.

  On arrival at her bedside I quickly saw the gravity of the situation;but, unfortunately, I knew very little of the case, because SirBernard himself always made a point of attending her personally.Although elderly, she was a prominent woman in society, and hadrecommended many patients to my chief in earlier days, before heattained the fame he had now achieved. I remained with her a couple ofhours; but finding myself utterly confused regarding her symptoms, Iresolved to take the afternoon train down to Hove and consult SirBernard. I suggested this course to her ladyship, who was at oncedelighted with the suggestion. Therefore, promising to return at teno'clock that night, I went out, swallowed a hasty luncheon, and tooktrain down to Brighton.

  The house was one of those handsome mansions facing the sea at Hove,and as I drove up to it on that bright, sunny afternoon, it seemed tome an ideal residence for a man jaded by the eternal worries of aphysician's life. The sea-breeze stirred the sun-blinds before thewindows, and the flowers in the well-kept boxes were already gay withbloom. I knew the place well, for I had been down many times before;therefore, when the page opened the door he showed me at once to thestudy, a room which lay at the back of the big drawing-room.

  "Sir Bernard is in, sir," the page said. "I'll tell him at once you'rehere," and he closed the door, leaving me alone.

  I walked towards the window, which looked out upon a small flowergarden, and in so doing, passed the writing table. A sheet of foolscaplay upon it, and curiosity prompted me to glance at it.

  What I saw puzzled me considerably; for beside the paper was a letterof my own that I had sent him on the previous day, while upon thefoolscap were many lines of writing in excellent imitation of my own!

  He had been practising the peculiarities of my own handwriting. Butwith what purpose was a profound mystery.

  I was bending over, closely examining the words and noting howcarefully they had been traced in imitation, when, of a sudden, Iheard a voice in the drawing-room adjoining--a woman's voice.

  I pricked my ears and listened--for the eccentric old fellow toentertain was most unusual. He always hated women, because he saw toomuch of their wiles and wilfulness as patients.

  Nevertheless it was apparent that he had a lady visitor in theadjoining room, and a moment later it was equally apparent that theywere not on the most friendly terms; for, of a sudden, the voicesounded again quite distinctly--raised in a cry of horror, as thoughat some sudden and terrible discovery.

  "Ah! I see--I see it all now!" shrieked the unknown woman. "You havedeceived me! Coward! You call yourself a man--you, who would sell awoman's soul to the devil!"

  "Hold your tongue!" cried a gruff voice which I recognised as SirBernard's. "You may be overheard. Recollect that your safety can onlybe secured by your secrecy."

  "I shall tell the truth!" the woman declared.

  "Very well," laughed the man who was my chief in a tone of defiance."Tell it, and condemn yourself."