Читать книгу A Mysterious Disappearance - Tracy Louis, Louis Tracy - Страница 1

Alice, Lady Dyke, puckered her handsome forehead into a thoughtful frown as she drew aside the window-curtains of her boudoir and tried to look out into the opaque blackness of a November fog in London.

Behind her was cheerfulness – in front uncertainty. Electric lights, a nice fire reflected from gleaming brass, the luxury of carpets and upholstery, formed an alluring contrast to the dull yellow glare of a solitary lamp in the outer obscurity.

But Lady Dyke was a strong-minded woman. There was no trace of doubt in the wrinkled brows and reflective eyes. She held back the curtains with her left hand, buttoning a glove at the wrist with the other. Fog or no fog, she would venture forth, and she was already dressed for the weather in tailor-made costume and winter toque.

She was annoyed, but not disconcerted by the fog. Too long had she allowed herself to take things easily. The future was as murky as the atmosphere; the past was dramatically typified by the pleasant surroundings on which she resolutely turned her back. Lady Dyke was quite determined as to her actions, and a dull November night was a most unlikely agent to restrain her from following the course she had mapped out.

Moving to the light again, she took from her pocket a long, closely written letter. Its details were familiar to her, but her face hardened as she hastily ran through it in order to find a particular passage.

At last she gained her object – to make quite sure of an address. Then she replaced the document, stood undecided for a moment, and touched an electric bell.

“James,” she said, to the answering footman, “I am going out.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Sir Charles is not at home?”

“No, milady.”

“I am going to Richmond – to see Mrs. Talbot. I shall probably not return in time for dinner. Tell Sir Charles not to wait for me.”

“Shall I order the carriage for your ladyship?”

“Will you listen to me and remember what I have said?”

“Yes, milady.”

James ran downstairs, opened the door, bowed as Lady Dyke passed into Portman Square, and then confidentially informed Buttons that “the missus” was in a “rare old wax” about something.

“She nearly jumped down my bloomin’ throat when I asked her if she would have the carriage,” he said.

Her ladyship’s mood did not soften when she drifted from the fixed tenure of Wensley House, Portman Square, into the chaos of Oxford Street and fog at 5.30 on a November evening.

Though not a true “London particular,” the fog was chilly, exasperating, tedious. People bumped against each other without apology, ’buses crunched through the traffic with deadly precision, pair-horse vans swept around corners with magnificent carelessness.

In the result, Lady Dyke, who meant to walk, as she was somewhat in advance of the time she had fixed on for this very important engagement, took a hansom. In her present mood slight things annoyed her. Usually, the London cab-horse is a thoughtful animal; he refuses to hurry; when he falls he lies contented, secure in the knowledge that for five blissful minutes he will be at complete rest. But this misguided quadruped flew as though oats and meadow-grass awaited him at Victoria Station on the Underground Railway.

He raced down Park Lane, skidded past Hyde Park Corner, and grated the off-wheel of the hansom against the kerb outside the station within eight minutes.

In other words, her ladyship, if she would obey the directions contained in the voluminous letter, was compelled to kill time.

As she stepped from the vehicle and halted beneath a lamp to take a florin from her purse, a tall, ulster-wrapped gentleman, walking rapidly into Victoria Street, caught a glimpse of her face and well-proportioned form.

Instantly his hat was off.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Dyke. Can I be of any service?”

She bit her lip, not unobserved, but the law of Society forced her features into a bright smile.

“Oh, Mr. Bruce, is it you? I am going to see my sister at Richmond. Isn’t the weather horrid? I shall be so glad if you will put me into the right train.”

Mr. Claude Bruce, barrister and man about town, whose clean-cut features and dark, deep-set eyes made him as readily recognizable, knew that she would have been much better pleased had he passed without greeting. Like the footman, he wondered why she did not drive in her carriage rather than travel by the Underground Railway on such a night. He guessed that she was perturbed – that her voluble explanation was a disguise.

He reflected that he could ill afford any delay in dressing for a distant dinner – that good manners oft entail inconvenience – but of course he said:

“Delighted. Have you any wraps?”

“No, I am just going for a chat, and shall be home early.”

He bought her a first-class ticket, noting as an odd coincidence that it bore the number of the year, 1903, descended to the barrier, found that the next train for Richmond passed through in ten minutes, fumed inwardly for an instant, explained his presence to the ticket-collector, and paced the platform with his companion.

Having condemned the fog, and the last play, and the latest book, they were momentarily silent.

The newspaper placards on Smith & Son’s bookstall announced that a “Great Society Scandal” was on the tapis. “The Duke in the Box” formed a telling line, and the eyes of both people chanced on it simultaneously.

Thought the woman: “He is a man of the world, and an experienced lawyer. Shall I tell him?”

Thought the man: “She wants to take me into her confidence, and I am too busy to be worried by some small family squabble.”

Said she: “Are you much occupied at the Courts just now, Mr. Bruce?”

“No,” he replied; “not exactly. My practice is more consultive than active. Many people seek my advice about matters of little interest, never thinking that they would best serve their ends by acting decisively and promptly themselves.”

Lady Dyke set her lips. She could be both prompt and decisive. She resolved to keep her troubles, whatever they were, locked in the secrecy of her own heart, and when she next spoke of some trivial topic the barrister knew that he had been spared a recital.

He regretted it afterwards.

At any other moment in his full and useful life he would have encouraged her rather than the reverse. Even now, a few seconds too late, he was sorry. He strove to bring her back to the verge of explanations, but failed, for her ladyship was a proud, self-reliant personage – one who would never dream of risking a rebuff.

A train came, with “Richmond” staring at them from the smoke and steam of the engine.

“Good-bye!” he said.

“Good-bye!”

“Shall I see you again soon?”

“I fear not. It is probable that I shall leave for the South of France quite early.”

And she was gone. Her companion rushed to the street, and almost ran to his Victoria Street chambers. It was six o’clock. He had to dress and drive all the way to Hampstead for dinner at 7.30.

At ten minutes past nine Sir Charles Dyke entered Wensley House. A handsome, quiet, gentlemanly man was Sir Charles. He was rich – a Guardsman until the baronetcy devolved upon him, a popular figure in Society, esteemed a trifle fast prior to his marriage, but sobered down by the cares of a great estate and a vast fortune.

His wife and he were not well-matched in disposition.

She was too earnest, too prim, for the easy-going baronet. He respected her, that was all. A man of his nature found it impossible to realize that the depths of passion are frequently coated over with ice. Their union was irreproachable, like their marriage settlements; but there are more features in matrimony than can be disposed of by broad seals and legal phrases.

Unfortunately, they were childless, and were thus deprived of the one great bond which unites when others may fail.

Sir Charles was hurried, if not flurried. His boots were muddy and his clothes splashed by the mire of passing vehicles.

“I fear I am very late for dinner,” he said to the footman who took his hat and overcoat. “But I shall not be five minutes in dressing. Tell her ladyship – ”

“Milady is not at home, Sir Charles.”

“Not at home!”

“Milady went out at half-past five, saying that she was going to Richmond to see Lady Edith Talbot, and that you were not to wait dinner if she was late in returning.”

Sir Charles was surprised. He looked steadily at the man as he said:

“Are you quite sure of her ladyship’s orders?”

“Quite sure, Sir Charles.”

“Did she drive?”

“No, Sir Charles. She would not order the carriage when I suggested it.”

The baronet, somewhat perplexed, hesitated a moment. Then he appeared to dismiss the matter as hardly worth discussion, saying, as he went up stairs:

“Dinner almost immediately, James.”

During the solitary meal he was preoccupied, but ate more than usual, in the butler’s judgment. Finding his own company distasteful, he discussed the November Handicap with the butler, and ultimately sent for an evening paper.

Opening it, the first words that caught his eye were, “Murder in the West End.” He read the paragraph, the record of some tragic orgy, and turned to the butler.

“A lot of these beastly crimes have occurred recently, Thompson.”

“Yes, Sir Charles. There’s bin three since the beginning of the month.”

After a pause. “Did you hear that her ladyship had gone to Richmond?”

“Yes, Sir Charles.”

“Do you know how she went?”

“No, Sir Charles.”

“I wanted to see her to-night, very particularly. Order the brougham in ten minutes. I am going to the Travellers’ Club. I shall be home soon – say eleven o’clock – when her ladyship arrives.”

The baronet was driven to and from the club by his own coachman, but on returning to Wensley House was told that his wife was still absent.

“No telegram or message?”

“No, Sir Charles.”

“I suppose she will stay with her sister all night, and I shall have a note in the morning to say so. Just like a woman. Now if I did that, James, there would be no end of a row. Anxiety, and that sort of thing. Call me at 8.30.”

An hour later Sir Charles Dyke left the library and went to bed.

At breakfast next morning the master of the house rapidly scanned the letters near his plate for the expected missive from his wife. There was none.

A maid was waiting. He sent her to call the butler.

“Look here, Thompson,” he cried, “her ladyship has not written. Don’t you think I had better wire? It’s curious, to say the least, going off to Richmond in this fashion, in a beastly fog, too.”

Thompson was puzzled. He had examined the letters an hour earlier. But he agreed that a telegram was the thing.

Sir Charles wrote: “Expected to hear from you. Will you be home to lunch? Want to see you about some hunters”; and addressed it to his wife at her sister’s residence.

“There,” he said, turning to his coffee and sole. “That will fetch her. We are off to Leicestershire next week, Thompson. By the way, I am going to a sale at Tattersall’s. Send a groom there with her ladyship’s answer when it comes.”

He had not been long at the sale yard when a servant arrived with a telegram.

“Ah, the post-office people are quick this morning,” he said, smiling. He opened the envelope and read:

“Want to see you at once. – Dick.”

He was so surprised by the unexpected nature of the message that he read the words aloud mechanically. But he soon understood, and smiled again.

“Go back quickly,” he said to the man, “and tell Thompson to send along the next telegram.”

A consignment of Waterford hunters was being sold at the time, and the baronet was checking the animals’ descriptions on the catalogue, when he was cheerily addressed:

“Hallo, Dyke, preparing for the shires, eh?”

Wheeling round, the baronet shook hands with Claude Bruce.

“Yes – that is, I am looking out for a couple of nice-mannered ones for my wife. I have six eating their heads off at Market Harborough now.”

Bruce hesitated. “Will Lady Dyke hunt this season?” he asked.

“Well, hardly that. But she likes to dodge about the lanes with the parson and the doctor.”

“I only inquired because she told me last night that she would probably winter in the South of France.”

“Told you – last night – South of France!” Sir Charles Dyke positively gasped in his amazement.

“Why, yes. I met her at Victoria. She was going to Richmond to see her sister, she said.”

“I am jolly glad to hear it.”

“Glad! Why?”

“Because I have not seen her myself since yesterday morning. She went off mysteriously, late in the afternoon, leaving a message with the servants. Naturally I am glad to hear from you that she got into the train all right.”

“I put her in the carriage myself. Have you not heard from her?”

“No. I wired this morning, and expect an answer at any moment. But what is this about the South of France? We go to Leicestershire next week.”

“I can’t say, of course. Your wife seemed to be a little upset about something. She only mentioned her intention casually – in fact, when I asked if we would meet soon.”

The other laughed, a little oddly in the opinion of his astute observer, and dismissed the matter by the remark that the expected message from his wife would soon clear the slight mystery attending her movements during the past eighteen hours.

The two men set themselves to the congenial task of criticizing the horses trotting up and down the straw-covered track, and Sir Charles had purchased a nice half-bred animal for forty guineas when his groom again saluted him.

“Please, sir,” said the man, “here’s another telegram, and Thompson told me to ask if it was the right one.”

Sir Charles frowned at the interruption – a second horse of a suitable character was even then under the hammer – but he tore open the envelope. At once his agitation became so marked that Bruce cried:

“Good heavens, Dyke, what is it? No bad news, I hope?”

The other, by a strong effort, regained his self-control.

“No, no,” he stammered; “it is all right, all right. She has gone somewhere else. See. This is from her sister, Mrs. Talbot. Still, I wish Alice would consider my natural anxiety a little.”

Bruce read:

“I opened your message. Alice not here. I have not seen her for over a week. What do you mean by wire? Am coming to town at once. – Edith.”

The baronet’s pale face and strained voice betrayed the significance of the thought underlying the simple question.

“What do you make of it, Claude?”

Bruce, too, was very grave. “The thing looks queer,” he said; “though the explanation may be trifling. Come, I will help you. Let us reach your house. It is the natural centre for inquiries.”

They hailed a hansom and whirled off to Portman Square. They did not say much. Each man felt that the affair might not end so happily and satisfactorily as he hoped.