Читать книгу The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery - Le Queux William - Страница 2

In the absence of her father, Sheila Monkton was compelled to entertain her guests at dinner alone. There were three: Sir Pemberton Wheeler and his young dark-haired wife Cicely, an old schoolfellow of Sheila’s, and Austin Wingate.

They were a merry quartette as they sat in the cosy dining-room in Chesterfield Street, a few doors from Curzon Street, waited on by Grant, the white-headed, smooth-faced old butler who had been in the service of Monkton’s father before him.

The house was an old-fashioned Georgian one. Upon the iron railings was a huge extinguisher, recalling the days of linkmen and coaches, while within was a long, rather narrow hall and a spiral staircase of stone worn hollow by the tread of five generations. The rooms were not large, but very tastefully, even luxuriously, furnished, with many fine paintings, pieces of beautiful statuary, and magnificent bronzes, while everywhere were soft carpets upon which one’s feet fell noiselessly. In that house, indeed in that very room wherein the four sat laughing in the June twilight, the pale-pink shades of the lamps shedding a soft glow over the table with its flowers and silver, many of the most prominent British statesmen had been entertained by the Colonial Secretary, and many a State secret had been discussed within those four dark-painted walls.

“The Prime Minister dined with us last Thursday,” Sheila remarked to Cicely Wheeler. “Lord Horsham came in later, and they had one of their private conferences.”

“Which meant that you were left to amuse yourself alone, eh?” laughed Sir Pemberton Wheeler, and he glanced mischievously towards Austin on the other side of the table.

“Yes. That is quite true.” Sheila laughed, instantly grasping his meaning. “Mr Wingate did not happen to be here. When father has a political dinner no ladies are invited. Some of those dinners are horribly boring, I can assure you,” declared the girl.

“Their eternal discussion of this measure and the other measure, and – oh! how they all intrigue, one Party against the other! Do you know that I’ve sat here and heard some most remarkable schemes.”

“Secrets, I suppose?” remarked Austin, twisting the stem of his windlass between his fingers.

“Yes – I’ve heard them discuss what they call matters of policy which, to me, appear merely to be the most ingenious methods of gulling the public.”

“Ah! my dear Miss Monkton, few politicians are so straight and open as your father. That is why the Opposition are so deadly in fear of him. His speech last week regarding the recent trouble in the Malay States was an eye-opener. He lifted the veil from a very disconcerting state of affairs, much to the chagrin and annoyance of those to whose advantage it was to hush-up the matter.”

“That is what father is always saying,” declared Sheila. “He often sighs when going through despatches which the messengers bring, and exclaims aloud ‘Ah! if the public only knew! – if they only knew! What would they think – what would they say?’”

“Then something is being concealed from the nation?” Austin remarked.

“Something!” echoed the girl. “Why, a very great deal. Of that I am quite certain.”

“You know nothing of its nature?” asked her friend Cicely, with her woman’s eagerness to inquire.

“Of course not, dear. Father never confides any secrets to me,” she replied. “He always says that women gossip too much, and that it is through the chattering wives of Members of the House, whom he calls the jays, that much mischief is done.”

“The jays!” laughed Sir Pemberton. “Very good! I suppose he has given them that name because of their fine feathers. Personally I shall be glad to get to Dinard out of it all for a while.”

“We always enjoy Dinard, Sheila,” declared his wife. “You really must get your father to bring you to the Royal this summer. We shall be there all the season. We sent the car over a week ago.”

Cicely, or Lady Wheeler to give her her title, was a giddy little woman who, after being a confirmed flirt and known in Mayfair as one of its prettiest butterflies, had married a man more than double her age, for Wheeler was fifty, interested in spinning-mills in Yorkshire, and sat in Parliament for the constituency in which his mills were situated. At the last moment she had jilted young Stenhouse, of the Grenadier Guards, for the more alluring prospect of Wheeler’s title and his money. Hence the Morning Post had one day announced to the world that her marriage with the good-looking young Captain would “not take place,” and a week later her photograph had appeared as the future Lady Wheeler.

She had joined that large circle of London society who are what is known in their own particular jargon as “spooky.” She attended séances, consulted mediums, and believed in the statements of those who pretended to have made psychic discoveries. Yet Sheila, who was far too level-headed to follow London’s latest craze, was devoted to her, and had been ever since they studied together at that fashionable school near Beachy Head.

“I spoke to father to-day about a little trip across to you,” Sheila replied, “and he thinks he may be able to do it when the House is up.”

“That’s good,” declared Sir Pemberton in his plethoric voice. “Get him to bring his car over too, and we’ll have a tour together through Brittany and down to Nantes and the Touraine.”

“I’d love to see the old châteaux there,” Sheila declared. “There’s a big illustrated book about them in the library – Blois, Chenonceaux, Chinon, Loches, and the rest.”

“Well, your father certainly requires a rest after all the stress of this session.”

“Certainly he does,” declared Cicely. “Get round dear old Macalister, the doctor, to order him a rest and suggest a motor-tour as relaxation.”

“Besides, it always delights the public to know that a Cabinet Minister has gone away on holiday. It shows that he is overworked in the interests of the nation,” laughed Austin, who was nothing if not matter-of-fact.

At last, the dinner having ended, Sheila and Cicely rose and left the men, after which Grant sedately served them with coffee, two glasses of triple-sec, and cigarettes.

For ten minutes or so they gossiped, after which they rejoined the ladies in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room upstairs.

At Wheeler’s suggestion Sheila went to the piano and sang one of those gay chansons of the Paris cafés which she had so often sung at charity concerts. She had begun to learn French at eight years of age, and after her school at Eastbourne had been at Neuilly for three years before coming out.

She chose “Mon p’tit Poylt,” that gay song to which Lasaigues had written the music and which was at the moment being sung at half the café concerts in France. Playing her own accompaniment in almost the professional style of the entertainer, she began to sing the merry tuneful song, with its catchy refrain:

The trio listening laughed merrily, for she played and sang with all the verve of a Parisian chanteuse. Besides, both music and words were full of a gay abandon which was quite unexpected, and which charmed young Wingate, who knew that, though the Cabinet Minister held him in high esteem as a friend, yet to marry Sheila was entirely out of the question. He realised always that he was a mere designer of aeroplanes, “a glorified motor-mechanic” some jealous enemies had declared him to be. How could he ever aspire to the hand of “Monkton’s daughter?”

Level-headed and calm as he always was, he had from the first realised his position and retained it. Mr Monkton had admitted him to his friendship, and though always extremely polite and courteous to Sheila, he remained just a friend of her father.

At last she concluded, and, rising, made a mock bow to her three listeners, all of whom congratulated her, the mill-owner declaring:

“You really ought to give a turn at the Palace Theatre, Sheila! I’ve heard lots of worse songs there!”

”‘Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister’s daughter’ would certainly be a good draw!” declared Cicely.

“Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That’s all,” answered their sprightly young hostess. “But look! it’s past eleven, and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left. I’ll telephone to the House.”

And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where she quickly “got on” to the House of Commons.

When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed:

“He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? He ought to have been back long before this.”

Then at her guests’ request she sang another French chanson – which, through the half-open window, could have been heard out in Curzon Street – greatly to the delight of the little party.

At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leave by the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and her husband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after which Sheila and Austin found themselves alone.

When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were, find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case. While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin’s request to sing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their hands touched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face.

In those hazel eyes he saw that love-look – that one expression which no woman can ever disguise, or make pretence; that look which most men know. It is seldom in their lives they see it, and when once it is observed it is never forgotten, even though the man may live to be a grandfather.

At that instant of the unconscious contact of the hands, so well-remembered afterwards by both of them, Sheila flushed, withdrew her hand forcibly, and rose, exclaiming with pretended resentment:

“Don’t, Austin – please.”

Meanwhile there had been what the newspapers term a “scene” in the House of Commons that evening. An important debate had taken place upon the policy of the Imperial Government towards Canada, a policy which the Opposition had severely criticised in an attempt to belittle the splendid statesmanship of the Colonial Secretary, who, having been absent during greater part of the debate, entered and took his seat just as it was concluding.

At last, before a crowded House, Reginald Monkton, who, his friends noticed, was looking unusually pale and worn, rose and replied in one of those brief, well-modulated, but caustic speeches of his in which he turned the arguments of the Opposition against themselves. He heaped coals of fire upon their heads, and denounced them as “enemies of Imperialism and destroyers of Empire.” The House listened enthralled.

He spoke for no more than a quarter of an hour, but it was one of the most brilliant oratorical efforts ever heard in the Lower Chamber, and when he reseated himself, amid a roar of applause from the Government benches, it was felt that the tide had been turned and the Opposition had once more been defeated.

Hardly had Monkton sat down when, remembering that he had guests at home, he rose and walked out.

He passed out into Palace Yard just before ten o’clock and turned his steps homeward, the night being bright and starlit and the air refreshing. So he decided to walk.

Half-an-hour after Cicely and her husband had left Chesterfield Street Sheila again rang up the House and made further inquiry, with the same result, namely, that the Colonial Minister had left Westminster just before ten o’clock. Monkton had been seen in St. Stephen’s Hall chatting for a moment with Horace Powell, the fiery Member for East Islington, whom he had wished “good-night” and then left.

So for still a further half-hour Sheila, though growing very uneasy, sat chatting with Austin, who, be it said, had made no further advances. He longed to grasp her slim white hand and press it to his lips. But he dared not.

“I can’t think where father can be!” exclaimed the girl presently, rising and handing her companion the glass box of cigarettes. “Look! it is already one o’clock, and he promised most faithfully he would be back to wish the Wheelers farewell.”

“Oh! he may have been delayed – met somebody and gone to the club perhaps,” Austin suggested. “You know how terribly busy he is.”

“I know, of course – but he always rings me up if he is delayed, so that I need not sit up for him, and Grant goes to bed.”

“Well, I don’t see any necessity for uneasiness,” declared the young man. “He’ll be here in a moment, no doubt. But if he is not here very soon I’ll have to be getting along to Half Moon Street.”

Through the next ten minutes the eyes of both were constantly upon the clock until, at a quarter-past one, Wingate rose, excusing himself, and saying:

“If I were you I shouldn’t wait up any longer. You’ve had a long day. Grant will wait up for your father.”

“The good old fellow is just as tired as I am – perhaps more so,” remarked the girl sympathetically. And then the pair descended to the hall, where Sheila helped him on with his coat.

“Well – good-night – and don’t worry,” Austin urged cheerfully as their hands met. The contact sent a thrill through him. Yes. No woman had ever stirred his soul in that manner before. He loved her – yes, loved her honestly, truly, devotedly, and at that instant he knew, by some strange intuition, that their lives were linked by some mysterious inexplicable bond. He could not account for it, but it was so. He knew it.

By this time Grant had arrived in the hall to let out Miss Sheila’s visitor, and indeed he had opened the door for him, when at that same moment a taxi, turning in from Curzon Street, slowly drew up at the kerb before the house.

The driver alighted quickly and, crossing hurriedly to Austin, said:

“I’ve got a gentleman inside what lives ’ere, sir. ’E ain’t very well, I think.”

Startled by the news Austin and Grant rushed to the cab, and with the assistance of the driver succeeded in getting out the unconscious form of the Colonial Secretary.

“I’d send the lady away, sir – if I were you,” whispered the taxi-driver to Wingate. “I fancy the gentleman ’as ’ad just a drop too much wine at dinner. ’E seems as if ’e ’as!”

Amazed at such a circumstance Sheila, overhearing the man’s words, stood horrified. Her father was one of the most temperate of men. Such a home-coming as that was astounding! The three men carried the prostrate statesman inside into the small sitting-room on the right, after which Austin, completely upset, handed the taxi-man five shillings, and with a brief word of thanks dismissed him.

Meanwhile Sheila had rushed into the dining-room to obtain a glass of water, hoping to revive her father. Old Grant, faithful servant that he was, had thrown himself upon his knees by the couch whereon his master had been placed.

He peered into his pale face, which was turned away from the silk-shaded electric light, and then suddenly gasped to Wingate: “Why! It isn’t Mr Reginald at all, sir! He’s wearing his clothes, his watch and chain – and everything! But he’s a stranger – it isn’t Mr Reginald! Look for yourself!”