The Second Victorian Mystery Megapack, page 112
“Why shouldn’t you?” he inquired. “Perhaps, now you speak of it, the eyes are a little too close together. But you must wait until you have seen the man himself before you judge him. I assure you he can be a charming companion.”
“I gathered as much from his photograph,” she answered, taking it up and looking at it again, “At what time does he arrive today?”
“In time for afternoon tea,” said Godfrey. “I am going to drive in to meet him.”
Molly made a little moue; with the selfishness of love, she did not approve of Godfrey leaving her, if only for so short a time. And, if the truth be confessed, I fear she was a little jealous of the man who was to be responsible for his absence. It is not always that a sweetheart is any too well disposed toward her lover’s bachelor friends. For some reason, Fensden’s photograph had prejudiced her against him. She was resolved to be just; but she felt convinced in her own mind that she would never be able to say that she really liked or trusted the man. She did not tell Godfrey this.
In accordance with the arrangements he had made, that afternoon, at about three o’clock, Godfrey drove off to the station to meet his friend. He was looking forward to seeing him, if only that he might show him how great was the difference between the sketch the other had drawn of his future wife that night in the desert, and the reality. I fancy if England had been searched through that day, a happier young man than the master of Detwich would have been difficult to find. Yet, though he could not guess it, the climax of his life was only a few hours’ distant.
As he drove along, he thought of Molly and the happiness that was to be his portion in the future. Then his thoughts turned to Teresina. While he had prospered in the world, she had lost what little happiness she had ever possessed. He determined to discuss her affairs with Fensden on the first available opportunity, when doubtless the latter would be able to suggest a way in which he might assist her. By the time he had arrived at this reflection, he had reached the station, and the groom was standing at the horse’s head. Having placed the reins under the patent clip, he descended from the cart and went on to the platform. The station-master saluted him respectfully, and informed him that the train had already been signalled. Indeed, the words had scarcely left that functionary’s lips before a whistle was heard in the cutting, and a moment later it came into view. As the train swept past him Godfrey caught a glimpse of the man he had come to meet, gathering together his travelling things, in a first-class carriage.
“How are you, my dear old fellow?” he cried, as he turned the handle of the door. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you! I am afraid you have had a cold journey. Let me take some of your things.”
Victor graciously permitted the other to assist him with his luggage, and then he himself descended from the carriage. They shook hands and afterward strolled in the direction of the gate. Victor was attired in a magnificent travelling ulster, and a neat deer-stalker’s hat. An orange-coloured tie peeped from the opening under his beard, and his hands were as daintily gloved as a lady’s. Altogether, as he walked down the platform, he presented as artistic a figure as Detwich had seen for a very long time.
“What have you been doing since I saw you?” Godfrey inquired as they took their places in the dog-cart.
“Repairing the ravages of time and Continental travel,” Victor replied, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added politely: “I hope Miss Devereux is well?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Godfrey, “and most anxious to see you. She has read your poems and has seen your portrait; all she requires now is to be introduced to the original.”
“In that case I fear she will be disappointed,” said Victor, with what was almost a sneer in his voice. “Since she is with you, I presume your mother and sister are at the Hall. Do they look forward to the idea of turning out?”
“They are a pair of foolish women who would do anything, or give up anything in order to make me happy,” the other replied. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that they altogether mind. They both prefer London, and when they return from their travels, I believe it is their intention to take a flat and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of Kensington.”
“While you are assimilating the bucolic virtues. Well, it’s a pretty picture, and if I had fifteen thousand a year and a fine estate I might be tempted to do the same. As I haven’t the money or the property I remain what I am.”
“And that is?”
“A trifler,” Victor replied, with unusual bitterness. “One who might have done and who did not—who dropped the substance in an attempt to grasp the shadow.”
“Nonsense,” said Godfrey, who did not like to hear his friend abuse himself in this fashion. “If you are going to talk like that I shall have to prescribe a long dose of country air.”
Then, in an attempt to change the other’s thoughts, he talked of their travels together, and of the curious characters they had met, which lasted until they had passed through the lodge gates and were well on their way across the park. Even in the sombreness of winter the place looked very beautiful, and Victor expressed himself delighted with it.
“I had no idea it was so fine,” he said, as they swept round the drive and came into view of the house. “I can very well understand your liking for a country life when you possess an estate like this. Your uncle did you a kind action when he made you his heir.”
“Nobody is more sensible of that fact than I am,” Godfrey replied. “I only wish I could let the old fellow know how grateful I am. I often think that during his lifetime he was disappointed in me because I took to painting instead of becoming a country gentleman. I wonder what he would say if he could see me now? I don’t know what you may think, but to my mind there are times when one likes to imagine that the dead are near us.”
Victor gave a violent start, followed by a shiver.
“Good Heavens! What an idea!” he cried. Then, dropping back into his old cynical tone, he continued: “I am afraid that if your idea were possible our human affairs would become somewhat complicated. For my own part I am quite content that the matter should stand as it is.”
As he finished speaking they drew up before the steps and the two men descended from the cart. The ladies were waiting in the hall to receive them.
“How do you do, Mr. Fensden?” said Mrs. Henderson, coming forward to meet him. “It is a long time since we have met, and you have been a great traveller in the meantime.”
“Thanks to your son,” said Victor as he took her hand. “How do you do, Miss Kitty? Events advance too quickly with all of us, but they seem to have taken giant strides with you.”
“You mean that when last we met I was still on the other side of that line which is only crossed by a girl when she performs the mysterious operation called ‘putting her hair up,’” answered that sharp-tongued young lady.
“Now, Victor,” said Godfrey, when Kitty had been annihilated, “let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Devereux.”
The couple bowed to each other, and Victor offered her his congratulations.
“And now you must come and have your tea,” said Mrs. Henderson, hospitably. “You must need it, I am sure, after your long journey.”
“Or perhaps you would prefer something more substantial,” put in Godfrey. “I noticed that you shivered as we came up the drive.”
“I really think I should,” said Victor. “After the warmth of the East our English winters are not to be trifled with.”
Godfrey led the way to the dining-room and placed the spirit-stand before his friend.
“I don’t think I have ever been so cold in my life before,” said Victor, as he poured out an amount of brandy for himself that made Godfrey open his eyes in astonishment, for he had always looked upon the other as an exceedingly temperate man.
“Now, tell me, would you prefer to see your room first?” Godfrey inquired, when the other had tossed off his refreshment, “or shall we join the ladies?”
“Perhaps I had better make myself presentable first,” Victor answered, glancing complacently at himself in the mirror above the chimney-piece.
Godfrey accordingly led the way to the room which had been set apart for his friend’s use, and to which the latter’s luggage had been conveyed. It was a pleasant apartment, looking out on what was called the Ladies’ Garden, and thence across the park to a high and wooded hill. Victor went to the window and studied the prospect.
“You have a charming home,” he said, with what was almost a sigh; “you are about to marry a beautiful girl; you have wealth, success, and everything else that can make life worth living, Godfrey. You should be a happy man.”
“I am happy,” Godfrey replied, “and, please God, I’ll do my best to make others so. And that reminds me, Victor, I want to have a talk with you. Do you know that on Thursday night I met Teresina in the Strand?”
Victor had turned from the window, and was brushing his hair at the time. As he heard what Godfrey said, the brush fell from his hand upon the floor. As he picked it up and continued his toilet, he said in surprise:
“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she was still in Naples?”
“She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken, for I spoke to her.”
“At what time did you see her?”
“Just about midnight,” his friend replied.
“Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?”
“How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say is that one hopes that she will be happy.”
“But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is dead.”
“I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina is unhappy?”
“Because she told me so, though she would not tell me anything further. The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.”
“And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.”
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me. Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She broke down altogether when we reached her house.”
“Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?”
“Why should I not have done so?”
“Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case, “circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not altogether approve.”
“Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I could to comfort an old friend in trouble.”
“But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go downstairs?”
“But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much as I did.”
“Mon cher ami,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass, “that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be only too glad to do it.”
“I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”
“Not the least. She would tell me nothing. She tried to make me believe that she had plenty of work, and that she did not stand in need of any assistance. I knew better, however.”
“And where is she living?”
“In Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. It is a miserable place, mainly occupied by foreigners. The house is on the right-hand side.”
“Very well,” said Victor. “When I go back to town I will look her up. It will be hard if we can’t arrange something.”
Then they descended the stairs together and entered the drawing-room.
“My dear Godfrey, are you aware that you will have one wife in a hundred?” said Kitty, pointing to a table on which some twenty packages of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions were arranged.
“How so?” said Godfrey. “What new virtue have you discovered in her?”
“I have found that she can subordinate curiosity to a sense of duty,” said the young lady. “These presents arrived for you just after you left for the station, and yet she would not open them herself or allow me to do so until you returned. I have been consumed with a mad desire to explore them, particularly that foreign-looking box at the end.”
“Well, your curiosity shall very soon be satisfied,” he said. “But we must begin with the most important-looking packages.”
“Let us pray that there are no more Apostle spoons, serviette-rings, or silver sweet-dishes,” said Molly. “We have already some two dozen of each.”
Package after package was opened in its turn and the contents displayed. As they were for the most part presents to the bridegroom individually, they were mainly of a nature suited to his tastes: hunting flasks, silver sandwich cases, cigar and cigarette holders, and articles of a similar description. At last they came to the curious-looking box to which Kitty had referred. It was oblong in shape, and bore the name of a Vienna firm stamped on the end. It was tied with cord, and the label was addressed in an uneducated handwriting to “Mr. Godfrey Henderson, Detwich Hall, Detwich, Midlandshire.”
In his own mind he had no doubt that it emanated from Teresina, who, as he was aware, had been informed as to his approaching marriage. Having untied the cord, he prized the lid, which was nailed down, with a dagger paper-knife, which he took from a table close at hand. An unpleasant odour immediately permeated the room. A folded sheet of newspaper covered the contents, whatever they were, and this Godfrey removed, only to spring back with a cry of horror. In the box, the fingers tightly interlaced, were two tiny hands, which had been severed from the body, to which they had once belonged, at the wrist.
CHAPTER VII
It would be impossible to picture, with any hope of success, the horror which accompanied the ghastly discovery described at the end of the previous chapter. Save for the cries of the ladies, who shrank from the box and covered their faces with their hands, and a muttered ejaculation from Godfrey, some seconds elapsed before any one spoke. Fensden was the first to recover his presence of mind. Picking up the sheet of paper which had fallen to the ground, he covered the box with it, thus shutting out all sight of the dreadful things it contained.
“Perhaps it would be as well, ladies, if you were to leave the room,” he said. “Godfrey and I must talk this matter over, and consider how we are to act.”
“Come, mother,” said Kitty, and she led the old lady in a semi-fainting condition from the room, closely followed by Molly.
When the door had closed behind them, Godfrey spoke for the first time.
“Good Heavens, Victor!” he said. “What does this mean? Am I mad or dreaming?”
“I fear it is no dream,” replied the other. “Who could have done it? Is it a case of murder, or what? Did you recognise the—the hands?”
Godfrey crossed to the chimney-piece and covered his face. A suspicion, so terrible that he dared not put it into words, was fast taking possession of him.
“Come, come,” said Victor, crossing to him, and placing his hands upon his shoulder, “we must look this matter squarely in the face. Be a man, and help me. The upshot may be even more serious than we suppose. Once more I ask you, did you recognise what you saw?”
“I fear so,” said Godfrey, very slowly, as if he were trying to force himself to speak. “There was a little scar, the result of a burn, half-an-inch or so above the knuckle of the second finger of the right hand.”
He had painted those beautiful hands too often not to remember that scar. Without a word, he crossed to the table in the middle of the room upon which the box stood, surrounded by the cases containing the other wedding presents, and once more removing the lid and the paper, carefully examined what he saw there. No, God help him! There could be no sort of doubt about it; the hands were those of Teresina Cardi, his model and friend. When he had satisfied himself as to their identity, he closed the box and turned to Fensden once more.
“It is too horrible,” he said; “but what does it mean? Why should themurderer have sent the hands to me in this dreadful way?”
“That is what I have been asking myself,” Fensden replied. “The man, whoever he was, must have borne you a fiendish grudge to have done such a thing. Is there anything about the box that will afford a clew as to the identity of the sender? Let us look.”
He examined the box carefully, but, beyond the printed name of the firm who had originally used it, there was nothing that could serve as a clew. It had come by train from Euston, and had been sent off on the previous evening. That for the present was all there was to know about it.
