The Place of Dragons: A Mystery
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Upon a peg behind the door hung another old grey mackintosh belonging to old Gregory – an exact replica of which had been worn by the man who had so mysteriously met his death.
But where was old Gregory? Aye, that was the question.
With Mrs. Dean, a homely person with hair brushed tightly back, and her husband looking on, we began a thorough search of the room, as well as of the two bedrooms on the next floor. The sitting-room was investigated first of all, but in the writing-table we found nothing of interest. One of the drawers had been emptied and a mass of tinder in the grate told a significant tale.
Old Mr. Gregory had burned a lot of documents before disappearing.
Why? Were they incriminating?
Why, too, had he so suddenly disappeared? Surely he would not have done so without knowledge of his nephew's tragic death!
For a full half-hour we rummaged that room and all that was in it, but, alas, found nothing.
In the old man's bedroom stood a battered leathern cabin-trunk bearing many labels of Continental hotels. It was unlocked, and we found it filled with clothes, but strangely enough, not the clothes of an old man, but rather the smart attire of a middle-aged person of fashion.
At first Frayne refused to believe that the trunk belonged to old Gregory. But Mrs. Dean was precise upon the point. That was Mr. Gregory's room.
In the bottom of the cabin-trunk we found a number of folded sheets of foolscap, upon which were written many cryptic calculations in feet and metres; "wave-metres," it was written upon one slip. They seemed to be electrical. Upon other sheets were lists of names together with certain figures, all of which conveyed to us no meaning. Frayne, of course, took possession of them for submission to examination later on.
"May I look at them later?" I asked him.
"Certainly, Mr. Vidal. They seem to be a bit of a puzzle, don't they? They have something to do with electricity, I fancy."
In the corner of the room, opposite the window, stood a large wooden sea-chest, similar to those used by naval officers. It was painted black, and bore, in white, the initials "V. G." It had an old and battered appearance, and the many labels upon it told of years of transit by rail and steamer.
I bent to examine it, but found it securely locked and bound round with iron bands.
"That's very heavy, sir," Mrs. Dean remarked. "He always kept it locked, so I don't know what's inside. When the old gentleman came in, he always went straight over to it as though to ascertain whether the lock had been tampered with."
"Ah, then there's something in there he wished to keep away from prying eyes!" said Frayne. "We must see what it is."
I remarked that the lock was a patent one, but he at once ordered a locksmith to be fetched, while we turned our attention to the adjoining room, the one that had been occupied by young Craig.
It was slightly smaller than the other one, and overlooked the narrow street which ran along the back of the houses towards the church.
We searched the drawers carefully, one after another, but found nothing except clothes – a rather extensive wardrobe. Of cravats, Craig had possessed fully a hundred, and of collars, dozens upon dozens.
Upon his dressing-table stood the heavy silver fittings of a travelling-bag, a very handsome set, and, in a little silver box, we found a set of diamond studs, with several valuable scarf-pins. The device of one of these was some intertwined initials, surmounted by a royal crown in diamonds; apparently a present from some exalted personage.
Presently, however, Treeton, who had remained in Gregory's room assisting in the perquisition, entered with an ejaculation of surprise, and we found that on pulling out the small drawer of the washstand, he had discovered beneath it some papers that had been concealed there.
We at once eagerly examined them, and found that there were slips exactly duplicating those discovered in old Gregory's wallet – slips with names and numbers upon them – apparently code numbers.
Together with these were several papers bearing more remarkable calculations, very similar to those we had found at the bottom of the cabin-trunk. The last document we examined was, however, something very different. It was a letter written upon a large sheet of that foreign business paper which is ruled in small squares.
"Hulloa!" Frayne exclaimed, "this is in some foreign language – French or German, I suppose."
"No," I said, glancing over his shoulder. "It's in Italian. I'll read it, shall I?"
"Yes, please, Mr. Vidal," cried the detective, and handed it to me.
It bore no address – only a date – March 17th, and translating it into English, I read as follows: —
"Illustrious Master, – The business we have been so long arranging was most successfully concluded last night. It is in the Matin to-day, a copy of which I send you with our greeting. H. left as arranged. J. arrives back in Algiers to-morrow, and the Nightingale still sings on blithely. I leave by Brindisi for Egypt to-night and will wire my safe arrival. Read the Matin. Does H. know anything, do you think? Greetings from your most devoted servant, Egisto."
"A very funny letter," remarked Treeton. "I wonder to what it alludes?"
"Mention of the Matin newspaper would make it appear that it has been written from Paris," I said. Then, with Frayne's assent, I rapidly scribbled a copy of the letter upon the back of an envelope which I took from my pocket.
A few moments later, the locksmith having arrived, we returned to old Gregory's room, and watched the workman as he used his bunch of skeleton-keys upon the lock of the big sea-chest. For ten minutes or so he worked on unsuccessfully, but presently there was a click, and he lifted the heavy wooden lid, displaying an old brown army blanket, carefully folded, lying within.
This we removed, and then, as our astounded gaze fell upon the contents of the chest, all involuntarily gave vent to loud ejaculations of surprise.
Concealed beneath the rug we saw a quantity of antique ornaments of silver and gold – rare objects of great value – ancient chalices, reliquaries, golden cups studded with precious stones, gold coronets, a great number of fine old watches, and a vast quantity of splendid diamond and ruby jewellery.
The chest was literally crammed with jewels, and gold, and silver – was the storehouse of a magnificent treasure, that must have been worth a fabulous sum.
I assisted Frayne to take out the contents of the chest, until the floor was covered with jewels. In one old brown morocco case that I opened, I found a glorious ruby necklet, with one enormous centre stone of perfect colour – the largest I had ever seen. In another was a wonderful collar of perfectly matched pearls; in a third, a splendid diamond tiara worth several thousand pounds.
"Enough to stock a jeweller's shop," said Frayne in an awed voice. "Why, what's this at the bottom?"
He began to tug at a heavy square wooden box, which, when he had succeeded in dragging it out and we opened it, we found to contain a hand flash-lamp for signalling purposes – one of the most recent and powerful inventions in night-signalling apparatus.
"Ha!" Treeton cried. "That's the lamp which Day suspected had been flashed from these windows on the night of the coast alarm."
"Yes," I remarked reflectively, "I wonder for what purpose that lamp was used?"
"At any rate, the old man has a fine collection of curiosities," said Frayne. "I suppose it was one of his eccentricities to carry them with him? No wonder he was so careful that the lock should not be tampered with!"
I stood looking at that strange collection of valuables. There were pieces of gold and silver plate absolutely unique. I am no connoisseur of antique jewellery, but instinctively I knew that every piece was of enormous value. And it had all been thrown pell-mell into the box, together with some old rags – seemingly once parts of an old damask curtain – in order to prevent the metal rattling. Much of the silver-ware was, of course, blackened, as none of it had been cleaned for years. But the gems sparkled and shone, like liquid drops of parti-coloured fire, as they lay upon the shabby carpet. What could it all mean?
Mrs. Dean, who was standing utterly aghast at this amazing discovery, jumped with nervousness as Frayne suddenly addressed her.
"Did Mr. Gregory have many visitors?"
"Not many, sir," was her reply. "His secretary used to come over from Sheffield sometimes – Mr. Fielder, I think his name was – a tall, thin gentleman, who spoke with an accent as though he were a foreigner. I believe he was a Frenchman, though he had an English name."
"Anybody else?"
"Mr. Clayton, the old schoolmaster from Sheringham, and – oh, yes – a lady came from London one day, a short time ago, to see him – a young French lady," replied Mrs. Dean.
"What was her name?"
"I don't know. It's about a fortnight ago since she came, one morning about eleven, so she must have left London by the newspaper train. She rang, and I answered the bell. She wouldn't let me take her name up to Mr. Gregory, saying: 'She would go up, as she wanted to give him a surprise.' I pointed out his door and she went in. But I don't think the old gentleman exactly welcomed her."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I heard him raising his voice in anger," replied the landlady.
"Was Mr. Craig there?"
"No. He was out somewhere I think. My own belief is that the young lady was Mr. Gregory's daughter. She stayed about an hour, and once, when I opened the door, I heard her speaking with him very earnestly in French, asking him to do something, it seemed like. But he flatly refused and spoke to her very roughly; and at this she seemed very upset – quite brokenhearted. I watched her leave. Her face was pale, and she looked wretchedly miserable, as though in utter despair. But I forgot," added Mrs. Dean. "Three days later I found her photograph, which the old man, who was very angry, had flung into the waste-paper basket. I kept it, because it was such a pretty face. I'll run down and get it – if you'd like to see it."
"Excellent," exclaimed Frayne, and the good woman descended the stairs.
A few moments later she came back with a cabinet photograph, which she handed to the detective.
I glanced at it over his shoulder.
Then I held my breath, staggered and dumbfounded.
The colour must have left my cheeks, I think, for I was entirely unprepared for such a shock.
But I pulled myself together, bit my lip, and by dint of a great effort managed to remain calm.
Nevertheless, my heart beat quickly as I gazed upon the picture of that pretty face, that most open, innocent countenance, that I knew so well.
Those wide-open, trusting eyes, that sweet smile, those full red lips – ah!
And what was the secret? Aye, what, indeed?
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS
"A very charming portrait," Frayne remarked. "I see it was taken in London. We ought to have no great difficulty in discovering the original – eh, Treeton – if we find it necessary?"
I smiled to myself, for well I knew that the police would experience considerable difficulty in ascertaining the identity of the original of that picture.
"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Dean, that it was the same lady who came to visit Mr. Gregory?" I asked the landlady.
"Quite positive, sir. That funny little pendant she is wearing in the photograph, she was wearing when she came to see the old gentleman – a funny little green stone thing – shaped like one of them heathen idols."
I knew to what she referred – the small green figure of Maat, the Goddess of Truth – an ancient amulet I had found, while prying about in the ruins of a temple on the left bank of the Nile, a few miles beyond Wady-Halfa – the gate of the Sudan. I knew that amulet well, knew the hieroglyphic inscription upon its back, for I had given it to her as a souvenir.
Then Lola – the mysterious Lola, whose memory had occupied my thoughts, both night and day, for many and many a month – had reappeared from nowhere, and had visited the eccentric Gregory.
In that room I stood, unconscious of what was going on about me; unconscious of that glittering litter of plate and jewels; of fifteenth century chalices and gem-encrusted cups; of sixteenth century silver, much of it ecclesiastical – probably from churches in France, Italy, and Spain – of those heavy nineteenth century ornaments, that wonderful array of diamonds and other precious stones, in ponderous early-Victorian settings, which lay upon the faded, threadbare carpet at my feet.
I was thinking only of the past – of that strange adventure of mine, which was now almost like some half-forgotten dream – and of Lola, the beautiful and the mysterious – whose photograph I now held in my nerveless fingers, just as the detective had given it to me.
At that moment a constable entered with a note for his inspector, who took it and opened it.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning to Frayne. "Here's another surprise for us! I made inquiries this morning of the Sheffield police concerning old Mr. Gregory. Here's their reply. They've been up to Messrs. Gregory and Thorpe's works, but there is no Mr. Gregory. Mr. Vernon Gregory, senior partner in the firm, died, while on a voyage to India, nearly a year ago!"
"What?" shrieked Mrs. Dean in scandalized tones. "Do you mean to say that that there old man, my lodger, wasn't Mr. Gregory?"
"He may have been a Mr. Gregory, but he certainly was not Mr. Vernon Gregory, the steel manufacturer," responded Treeton, calmly.
"Well, that beats everything!" she gasped. "Then that old man was a humbugging impostor – eh?"
"So it seems," Frayne replied.
"But it can't be true? I can't believe it! He was a real gentleman. See, here, what he had got put away in that old box of his. Them there Sheffield police is mistook, I'm sure they be. There'll be some good explanation of all this, I'll be bound, if 'tis looked for."
"I sincerely hope so," I remarked. "But at present I certainly don't see any."
Truth to tell, I was utterly staggered and confounded, the more so, by that report from Sheffield. I confess I had all along believed old Gregory to be what he had represented himself as being to the people of Cromer.
Now I realized that I was face to face with a profound and amazing problem – one which those provincial police-officers, patient and well-meaning as they were, could never hope to solve.
Yes, old Vernon Gregory was an impostor. The reply from the Sheffield police proved that beyond a doubt. Therefore, it also followed that the man lying dead was certainly not what he had represented himself to be – nephew of the great steel magnate.
But who was he? That was the present great question that baffled us.
The photograph I held in my hand bore the name: "Callard, Photographer, Shepherd's Bush Road." But I knew that whatever inquiries were made at that address, the result would be negative. The mysterious Lola was an elusive little person, not at all likely to betray her identity to any photographer.
There were reasons for her secrecy – very strong reasons, I knew.
So I smiled, when Frayne announced that he should send the picture up to London, and put through an inquiry.
I picked up some pieces of the jewellery that was lying at my feet. In my hand I held a splendid golden coronet in which were set great emeralds and rubies of enormous value. Even my inexpert eye could see that the workmanship was very ancient, and the stones but roughly cut and polished. I judged it to be a crown which had adorned the head of some famous Madonna in an Italian or Spanish church; a truly regal ornament.
Again stooping, I picked up a small heavy box of blackened repoussé silver of genuine Italian Renaissance work, and opening it, found it filled with rings of all kinds, both ancient and modern. There were signet rings bearing coats of arms; ladies' gem rings; men's plain gold rings; and rings of various fancy devices.
One I picked out was distinctly curious. A man's flat gold ring set with eight finely-coloured turquoises at equal intervals. It looked brighter and newer than the others, and as I fingered it, a small portion of the outer edge opened, revealing a neatly enamelled inscription in French, "Thou art Mine." On further examination I found that each of the spaces in which a turquoise was set, opened, and in each was also a tender love passage, "I love you," "Faithful and True," and so on, executed probably a century ago.
Yes, each piece in that wonderful collection was unique – the treasure of one who was undoubtedly a connoisseur of gems and antiques. Indeed, in no national collection had I ever seen a display more remarkable than that flung out so unceremoniously upon the carpet, around that mysterious flash-lamp.
While one of the detectives, at Frayne's order, began repacking the treasure, I went with the two inspectors to a sitting-room on the ground-floor, where, with the door closed, we discussed the situation.
Outside, upon the path in front of the house, were a knot of curious persons, among them Mr. Day, and his subordinate officer who had made the tragic discovery.
"Well," exclaimed Frayne, slowly rubbing his chin, "it's a very curious case. What will you do now, Treeton?"
"Do?" asked the local officer. "Why, I've done all I can do. I've reported it to the Coroner, and I suppose they'll make the post-mortem to-day, and hold the inquest to-morrow."
"Yes, I know," said the other. "But we must find this old man, Gregory. He seems to have been pretty slick at getting away."
"Frightened, I suppose," said Treeton.
"What. Do you think he killed his nephew?" queried the man from Norwich.
"Looks suspiciously like it," Treeton replied.
"Yes, but why did Craig go out disguised as the old man – that's the question?"
"Yes," I repeated. "That is indeed the question."
"And all that jewellery? The old man is not likely to leave that lot behind – unless he's guilty," said Frayne. "Again, that visit of the young lady. If we could only get track of her, she'd have something to tell us without a doubt."
"Of course," said Treeton. "Send the photograph to London, and find out who she is. What a bit of luck, wasn't it, that Mrs. Dean kept the picture she found in the waste-paper basket?"
I remained silent. Yes, if we could only discover the original of that photograph we should, no doubt, learn much that would be startling. But I felt assured that we should never find trace of her. The police could follow in her direction if they chose. I intended to proceed upon an entirely different path.
What I had learned in that brief hour, had staggered me. I could scarcely realize that once again I was face to face with the mystery of Lola – the sweetest, strangest, most shadowy little person I had ever met in all my life. And yet she was so real, so enchanting, so delightful – such a merry, light-hearted little friend.
Lola!
I drew a long breath when I recalled that perfect oval face, with the wonderful blue eyes, the soft little hand – those lips that were made for kisses.
Even as I stood there in the plainly-furnished sitting-room of that seaside lodging-house, I remembered a strangely different scene. A fine, luxurious chamber, rich with heavy gilt furniture, and crimson damask, aglow under shaded electric lights.
I saw her upon her knees before me, her white hands grasping mine, her hair dishevelled upon her shoulders, pleading with me – pleading, ah! I remembered her wild, passionate words, her bitter tears – her terrible confession.
And this provincial detective, whose chief feats had been confined to cases of petty larceny, speed limit, and trivial offences, dealt with by the local Justices of the Peace, actually hoped to unravel a mystery which I instinctively felt to be fraught with a thousand difficulties.
Any swindler, providing he has made sufficient money by his tricks, has bought a place in the country, and has been agreeable to the Deputy-Lieutenant of the County, can become one of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace. Some such are now and then unmasked, and off to penal servitude have gone, men who have been the foremost to inflict fines and imprisonment on the poor for the most trivial offences – men who made the poaching of a rabbit a heinous crime.
I venture to assert that the past of many a J. P. does not bear investigation. But even when glaring injustices are exposed to the Home Secretary, he is often afraid to order an inquiry, for political reasons. It is always "Party" that must be first considered in this poor old England of ours to-day.
What does "Party" mean? Be it Liberal, Unionist, Conservative, Labour, anything, there should at least be honesty, fair dealing, plain speaking and uprightness. But alas, this is an age of sham in England. Journalists, novelists, preachers, playwrights, are afraid to speak the truth frankly, though they know it, and feel it. It is "Party" always. Many a criminal has escaped conviction before our County Benches because of "Party," and for the same reason many innocents have been condemned and suffered.
This case of Mr. Vernon Gregory was a provincial case. The amusing farce of local investigation, and local justice, would no doubt be duly played. The coroner always agrees with the evidence of his own family doctor, or the prominent local medico, and the twelve honest tradesmen forming the jury are almost invariably led by the coroner in the direction of the verdict.
Oh, the farce of it all! I hold no brief for France, Belgium, Germany, or any other continental nation, for England is my native land. But I do feel that methods of inquiry on the continent are just, though minutely searching, that there Justice is merciful though inexorable, that her scales weigh all evidence to the uttermost gramme.
These reflections passed through my mind as I stood in that lodging-house room, while the two police officers discussed as to their further procedure in the amazing case with which they had been called upon to deal. I could not help such thoughts arising, for I was dubious, very dubious, as to the thoroughness of investigation that would be given to the affair by the local authorities. Slackness, undue delay, party or personal interests, any one of these things might imperil the inquiry and frustrate the ends of justice.
I knew we were confronted by one of the greatest criminal problems that had ever been offered for solution, calling for the most prompt, delicate and minute methods of investigation, if it was to be handled successfully. And as I contrasted the heavy, cumbrous, restricted conditions of English criminal procedure with the swift, far-reaching methods in use across the Channel, I felt that something of the latter was needed here if the mystery of Craig's death was ever to be solved.
CHAPTER VI
MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE
The town of Cromer was agog, when, next day, the coroner held his inquiry.
The afternoon was warm, and the little room usually used as the police court was packed to suffocation.
The jury – the foreman of which was a stout local butcher – having viewed the body, the inquest was formally opened, and Mrs. Dean, the first witness, identified the remains as those of her visitor, Mr. Edward Craig.
This, the first intimation to the public that Mr. Gregory was not dead after all, caused the greatest sensation.
In answer to the coroner, Mrs. Dean explained how, with his uncle, old Mr. Gregory, Craig had taken apartments with her. She had always found him a quiet, well-conducted young gentleman.
"Was he quite idle?" asked the grave-faced coroner.
"No. Not exactly, sir," replied the witness, looking round the closely packed room. "He used to do a good deal of writing for his uncle, more especially after the young man, Mr. Gregory's private secretary, had been over from Sheffield."
"How often did he come?"
"At intervals of a week or more. He always carried a small despatch-box, and on those occasions the three would sit together for half the day, doing their business, with the door closed – and," added the landlady vigorously, "Mr. Craig had no end of business sometimes, for he received lots of telegrams. From what I heard him say one day to his Uncle, I believe he was a betting man, and the telegrams were results of races."