Читать книгу The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery - Le Queux William - Страница 1

As the Right Honourable Reginald Monkton walked towards Charing Cross on that June morning his fifty-odd years appeared to weigh lightly upon him True, his hair was tinged with grey, yet that was but natural after over twenty years of political strife and Party bickering, of hard-fought divisions in the House, and of campaigns of various sorts up and down the country. His career had been a brilliantly outstanding one ever since he had graduated at Cambridge. He had risen to be a Bencher of the Inner Temple; had been, among other things, Quain Professor of Law at University College, London. In Parliament he had sat for North-West Manchester for ten years, afterwards for East Huntingdon, and later for the Govan Division of Glasgow. Among other political appointments he had held was that of a Junior Lord of the Treasury, afterwards that of Parliamentary Under-Secretary to the Home Office, and now in the latest Administration he had been given the portfolio of Colonial Secretary.

His one regret was that while he loved the country, and more especially Fydinge, that fine old Elizabethan manor house in Leicestershire, not far from Melton Mowbray, yet he was compelled to live in London and endure the fevered political and social life of the metropolis.

That morning, as he turned from Charing Cross towards Pall Mall, he was in a pensive mood. True, that little knot of people had spontaneously expressed their approval, and perhaps he was secretly gratified. Whatever popular men may say to the contrary, it is always the small appreciations that please. Reginald Monkton was far more gratified by a schoolgirl asking for his autograph in her well-thumbed album, than by the roars of applause that greeted his open and fearless speeches in the huge halls of Manchester, Birmingham, or Glasgow.

The millions of Britain knew him. His portrait appeared regularly in the illustrated papers, sometimes in declamatory attitude with his mouth open, his right fist in the palm of his left hand, addressing a great audience. But that morning, as he passed the “Senior” – as the United Service Club is known to officialdom – his thoughts were serious. He had tasted most of the sweets of life, and all the delights of popularity. Yet that day, the eighth of June, was the fourth anniversary of the death of Sheila, his beloved wife, the fine, self-sacrificing helpmate of his early days, the woman who had moulded his career and seen him through many hours of disappointment and tribulation, and who, with her woman’s amazing intuition and tact, had at the crisis of his life given him that sound advice which had swept him high upon the crest of the wave of popularity.

He recollected that it was on a bright sunny June day – just as that was – when, in that little villa amid the feathery palms at Mentone, he had held his dear one’s wasted hard while her eyes had slowly closed in her last long sleep.

A lump arose in his throat as he turned into Cockspur Street, heedless of the busy bustle of London life, or that two honourable Members had nodded to him. So absorbed was he that he had only stared at them blankly and passed on.

Like many another man whose name is a household word in Britain to-day, all his popularity counted as nothing to him, and even though he led the busy life of a Cabinet Minister, yet he was very lonely at heart.

For a second he held his breath, then, setting his wide jaws in hard determination to put aside those bitter thoughts of the past, and still unaware that he was being followed, he crossed the road and entered the Carlton Hotel.

The young woman in plain navy blue who had followed him from Downing Street passed by, and continued until she reached the corner of Waterloo Place, when she turned, retraced her steps, and, entering the hotel by the door in Pall Mall, glanced into the palm-court with quick, furtive eyes. Then, apparently satisfying herself, she went along the narrow corridor and emerged into the Haymarket.

Again turning the corner into Pall Mall she drew out her handkerchief to dab her nose again, and afterwards hailed a taxi and drove away.

On the kerb opposite stood the thick-set young man, who, having seen her signal, watched her leave, and then crossed and entered the hotel.

Reginald Monkton, on entering the palm-court after leaving his hat and cane, found his daughter Sheila seated at one of the little tables with a spruce, well-set-up, refined young man, awaiting him.

The young man sprang up eagerly, and, putting out his hand, exclaimed:

“It’s awfully good of you to come, Mr Monkton! I know how terribly busy you must be.”

“Delighted, my dear Austin,” declared the statesman. “Delighted! The Cabinet was just over in time, so I’ve walked along. Well, Sheila,” he asked merrily, turning to his daughter, “what have you been doing this morning?”

“Oh!” replied the pretty, fair-haired girl, who was very daintily, yet not showily, dressed. “I’ve not been doing much, father. I went to Bond Street for you, and then I called on Cicely Wheeler. She and her husband are off to Dinard to-morrow. I’ve asked them to dine with us to-night.”

“Ah! Then you will have to entertain them, I fear, as I must be down at the House.”

“What a pity!” replied the girl in disappointment. “I thought you said you would dine at home to-night!”

“I intended to do so, but find it will be impossible,” declared her father as the trio made a move into the restaurant, filled as it was with a gay London throng who were lunching to the well-modulated strains of the Roumanian orchestra.

Of the many pretty girls seated at the tables certainly none could compare with Sheila Monkton. Indeed, more than one young man turned to admire her as she seated herself and drew off her gloves, and they envied the good-looking young fellow with whom she was laughing so happily. She had just turned twenty. Her clear-cut features were flawless; her healthy complexion, her clear hazel eyes, her soft fair hair, and her small mouth combined to impart to her sweetness and daintiness that were both peculiarly attractive. Her black velvet hat trimmed with saxe blue suited her soft countenance admirably, while the graceful poise of her head had often been admired by artists; indeed, she was at that very period sitting to Howe, the R.A., for her portrait for next year’s Academy.

As for Austin Wingate, her companion, he was about twenty-four, and if not exactly an Adonis he was handsome enough, clean-shaven, with black hair, eyes of a dark grey, and a mouth which needed no moustache to hide it. His figure was that of the young man of pre-war days whom you met by the dozen in the High at Oxford, broad-shouldered, muscular, and full of natural energy and grace.

Women who met Austin Wingate for the first time usually thought him an ordinary easy-going fellow of that type known as a “nut,” who was careless as long as he lived his own go-ahead town life, the centre of which was the Automobile Club. Yet they would soon discern a certain deep thoughtful expression in his eyes and a gravity about the lips which at once upset the first estimate they had made of his character.

It was true that young Wingate was a merry, careless young fellow. He lived in cosy chambers in Half Moon Street, and his circle of friends, young men of his own age, were a rather wild lot. Most of them were ardent motorists, and nearly all were habitués of that centre of motoring in Pall Mall.

Of late Monkton’s daughter had been seen about with him a good deal, and in the select little world of politicians’ wives there had been many whisperings over teacups.

That day, however, Monkton was lunching openly with the pair, and several people in the restaurant, recognising the trio, put together their heads and gossiped.

While the two young people chattered merrily, Monkton, who had tried to crush down those ghosts of the past that had obsessed him while he walked along Whitehall, glanced across at his pretty daughter and sighed as he commenced his meal. Ah! how complete was the image of his dead wife. It was as though she sat there before him in those long-ago days of over twenty-five years ago, when she was the daughter of a country vicar and he was on the threshold of his career.

He saw how happy Sheila was with the young man who had so recently come into her life. Sometimes he had resented their acquaintance, yet to resent it was, he reflected, only jealousy after all. He himself had but little to live for. As a member of the Cabinet he had gained his goal. He would, he knew, never fulfil the prophecy of his humble admirer standing in Downing Street. He could never become Premier. There were abler men than he, men with greater influence with the nation, men who had schemed for the office for half a lifetime. No. Death might come to him soon – how soon he knew not. And then Sheila should marry. Therefore, even though the wrench would be a great one, personally he, honest man that he was, felt that he should make a sacrifice, and promote a union between the pair.

Sheila was his only home companion and comfort. True, she scolded him severely sometimes. Sometimes she pouted, put on airs, and betrayed defiance. But do not all young girls? If they did not they would be devoid of that true spirit of independence which every woman should possess.

Again he glanced at her while she laughed happily with the young man who loved her, but who had never admitted it. Then he looked across the room, where sat Benyon, a well-known member of the Opposition, with his fat, opulent wife, who had, until recently, been his housekeeper. The eyes of the two men met, and the Cabinet Minister waved his hand in recognition, while the stout, over-dressed woman stared.

Half the people in the restaurant had, by this time, recognised Reginald Monkton by the many photographs which appeared almost daily, for was he not the popular idol of his Party, and did not the Court Circular inform the nation of the frequent audiences he had of His Majesty the King?

“Well, Austin?” asked the Minister, when the waiter had served an exquisitely cooked entrée. “How are things out at Hendon?”

“Oh! we are all very busy, sir. Wilcox is experimenting with his new airship. At last he has had some encouragement from the Government, and we are all delighted. My shops are busy. We sent three planes to Spain yesterday. King Alphonso ordered them when he was over in the early spring.”

“Austin has promised to take me up for a flight one day, dad!” exclaimed the girl enthusiastically. “He wants to ask you if he may.”

Her father did not reply for some moments. Then he said judiciously:

“Well, dear, we must see. Perhaps he might take you just a little way – once round the aerodrome – eh?”

“Of course not far,” said his daughter, glancing significantly at her lover.

“There is no risk, Mr Monkton, I assure you. Miss Sheila is very anxious to go up, and I shall be most delighted to take her – with your consent, of course,” Wingate said. “My suggestion is just a circuit or two around the aerodrome. We are completing a new machine this week, and after I’ve tried her to see all is safe. I’d like to take Sheila up.”

“We must see – we must see,” replied her indulgent father, assuming a non-committal attitude. He, however, knew that in all England no man knew more of aerial dynamics than Austin Wingate, and, further, that beneath his apparently careless exterior with his immaculate clothes and his perfectly-brushed hair was a keen and scientific mind, and that he was working night and day directing the young and rising firm of aeroplane makers at Hendon, of which he was already managing director.

Sheila’s meeting with him had been the outcome of one of his experiments. One afternoon in the previous summer he had been driving a new hydroplane along the Thames, over the Henley course, when he had accidentally collided with a punt which Sheila, in a white cotton dress, was manipulating with her pole.

In an instant the punt was smashed and sunk, and Miss Monkton and her two girl companions were flung into the water. After a few minutes of excitement all three were rescued, and the young inventor, on presenting himself to express his deep regret, found himself face to face with “Monkton’s daughter,” as Sheila was known in Society.

The girl with her two friends, after changing their clothes at the Red Lion, had had tea with the author of the disaster, who was unaware of their names, and who later on returned to London, his hydroplane being badly damaged by the collision.

Six months went past, yet the girl’s face did not fade from Austin Wingate’s memory. He had been a fool, he told himself, not to ascertain her name and address. He had given one of the girls his card, and she had told him her name was Norris. That was all he knew. On purpose to ascertain who they were he had been down to Henley a fortnight after the accident, but as the girls had not stayed at the Red Lion, but were evidently living in some riverside house or bungalow, farther up the river, he could obtain no knowledge or trace of her.

One bright Saturday afternoon in November the usual gay crowd had assembled at the aerodrome at Hendon to watch the aviation, a science not nearly so well developed in 1912 as it is to-day. At the Wingate works, on the farther side of the great open grass lands, Austin was busy in the long shed directing the final touches to a new machine, which was afterwards wheeled out, and in which he made an experimental flight around the aerodrome, which the public, many of them seated at tea-tables on the lawn, watched with interest.

After making several circles and performing a number of evolutions, he came to earth close to a row of smart motor-cars drawn up on the lawn reserved for subscribers, and unstrapping himself sprang gaily out.

As he did so he saw, seated in the driver’s seat of a fine limousine straight before him, a girl in motoring kit chatting with an elderly man who stood beside the car.

The girl’s eyes met his, and the recognition was instantly mutual. She smiled merrily across to him, whereupon he crossed to her, just as he was, in his mechanic’s rather greasy brown overalls, and bowing before her exclaimed:

“How fortunate! Fancy meeting again like this!” Whereupon, with her cheeks flushed with undisguised pleasure, she shook his hand, and then turning to the tall elderly man explained:

“This is the gentleman who smashed our punt at Henley, father! We have not met since.”

“I fear it was very careless of me, sir,” Wingate said. “But I offer a thousand apologies.”

“The accident might have been far worse,” declared the girl’s father, smiling. “So let it rest at that.”

“I had no idea that it was you in the air just now,” exclaimed the girl, and then for ten minutes or so the trio stood chatting, during which time he explained that his works were on the opposite side of the aerodrome, after which he shook hands and left them.

“Whose car is that big grey one, third in the row yonder?” he asked eagerly of one of the gatekeepers, a few moments later.

“Oh, that, sir? Why, that belongs to Mr Reginald Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. There he is – with his daughter.”

So his sweet, dainty friend of the river was daughter of the popular Cabinet Minister!

He drew a long breath and bit his lip. Then climbing back into his machine, he waved father and daughter adieu and was soon skimming across to the row of long sheds which comprised the Wingate Aeroplane Factory.

The young man was sensible enough to know that he could never aspire to the hand of the Cabinet Minister’s daughter, yet a true and close friendship had quickly sprung up between her father and himself, with the result that Wingate was now a frequent and welcome visitor to the cosy old-world house in Mayfair, and as proof the well-known statesman had accepted Austin’s invitation to lunch at the Carlton on that well-remembered day of the Cabinet meeting, the true importance of which is only known to those who were present at the deliberations in Downing Street that morning.

Curious, indeed, were the events that were to follow, events known only to a few, and here chronicled for the first time.