The Wiles of the Wicked

“But I tell you it isn’t,” protested Gedge. “All that your wife has said is the absolute truth.”

“My wife!” I cried angrily. “I have no wife – thank Heaven!”

“No, no,” whined the painted old woman, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, very lightly, however, so as not to disturb their artificiality. “No, don’t say that, my dear Wilfred, don’t say that! You know that you are my husband – you know you are!”

“I know, my dear madam, quite well that I do not occupy that distinguished position,” I responded very firmly.

“But I can prove it – I can prove it!” she cried, with a futile effort at tears.

“Then I shall be most interested to see this extraordinary fiction proved,” I said. “Perhaps we shall then get down to facts.”

“The facts are as already stated,” Gedge remarked.

“Then let me see proof. There must be a certificate or official entry somewhere if what this lady says is really correct. Where is it?”

“My certificate was stolen when my jewel-case was rifled in the train between Waterloo and Exeter,” she answered. “But, of course, a copy can easily be obtained. Your solicitor in London can get a copy at once from Somerset House.”

“Certificate stolen!” I cried. “A most ingenious excuse. I quite anticipated it, although it, unfortunately, exhibits no originality. Thieves don’t usually steal marriage certificates. They can’t pawn them, you know.”

The woman before me glanced around the room with an air of bewilderment, and I then knew that I had cornered her.

“And where did this extraordinary marriage between us take place, pray?” I inquired, not without some bitter irony.

“At St. Andrew’s, Wells Street.”

“Wells Street, in London?”

“Yes. You surely remember it, don’t you? The church is close by Oxford Circus.”

“I know the church quite well,” I answered. “But I most firmly and distinctly deny ever having been inside it in my life.”

“If you examine the marriage register there you’ll find your signature, together with that of your wife,” Gedge observed, with a confidence that rather surprised me.

“I shall certainly take no trouble in such a matter,” I declared. “It is alleged that I am the husband of this lady, therefore it is for her to bring proof – not for me to seek it.”

“Very well, then,” cried the woman who called herself Mrs Heaton. “Within three days a copy of the certificate shall be placed in your hands.”

“I’m not very partial to copies of documents,” I observed very dubiously. “I always prefer originals.”

“The original is, unfortunately, lost.”

“Stolen, or strayed away of its own accord – eh?” I added with a doubtful laugh.

“Are you content to wait until the certificate can be obtained from Somerset House?” she inquired.

“No,” I responded. “If you are actually my wife as you allege, madam, perhaps you will kindly explain the mystery of my presence here, in a house that until an hour ago I had never seen in all my life.”

The woman and the secretary again exchanged glances. I saw they considered me an utterly irresponsible agent. They believed me to be demented.

“None of us can explain it,” Gedge answered. “There is some mystery, but what it is we can’t yet fathom.”

“Mystery!” I echoed. “I should think there was some mystery – and devilishly complicated it must be too, when I find myself in this amazing position. Why, it’s sufficient to turn the brain of any man to be told of one’s marriage to a – to a woman one has never set eyes upon before, and – well, old enough to be his own mother!”

“Hush, hush!” said the secretary, who apparently wished to avoid a scene. He evidently knew that this angular woman, notwithstanding her affected juvenility, possessed a fiendish temper. I had detected it by the keen look in her eyes and the twitchings of her thin, hard lips.

“If I’m in my own house,” I cried wrathfully, “I am surely permitted to say what I like. Am I master here, or not?”

“Certainly you are, sir,” he responded, instantly humbled.

“Then listen,” I said. “Until the arrival of the certificate from London I have no wish to meet this lady who alleges that she is my wife.”

Then, turning to her, I made her a mock bow, adding, ironically —

“I think, madam, that it will avoid any further words of a disagreeable nature if we remain apart for the present.”

“Certainly, Wilford,” she cried, putting her hands out to me with an imploring gesture. “Go and rest, there’s a dear, and carry out Doctor Britten’s orders. You will soon be right again if you do. You’ve been puzzling your head too much over your figures, and the blow has affected you. Go and rest. But before you go I would ask you one favour.”

“Well?” I inquired in a hard voice.

She drew nearer to me, and with that detestable artificial coquetry lifted her face to mine that I might kiss her.

“No!” I cried roughly, for I was beside myself with anger. “Let me remain in peace. I don’t want to meet you again, my dear madam, until – until I know the worst.”

“What have I done, Wilford, that you should treat me thus?” she wailed bitterly, bursting into a torrent of tears. “Oh, what have I done? Tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’ve done, and I’m sure I’m not interested in it,” I responded. “All I know is that when you declare that you are my wife you tell a deliberate and downright lie.”

For a moment she stood in hesitation, then, with tears flowing fast, she covered her face with her hands and staggered from the room.

Was she only acting the broken-hearted wife, or was that emotion real? Which, I could not decide.

If all this were part of some conspiracy, it was certainly one of no ordinary character. But what a confounded old hag the woman was! I shuddered. Surely she could not be my wife! The suggestion was too utterly preposterous to be entertained for a single moment, and within myself I laughed her allegation to scorn.

Chapter Twenty

How Many Yesterdays?

“Now,” I said, turning to Gedge, “perhaps you will show me over this new domain of mine. They seem to be pretty comfortable quarters, at any rate.”

He looked at me strangely.

“You surely don’t mean, sir, that you wish me to show you over your own house?” he said with incredulity.

“Of course I do,” I answered. “I’ve never been over it yet, and I think I may as well embrace the opportunity now.”

“But hadn’t you better go to your room and rest? It will surely do you good. I’ll ring for Rayner, the valet.” He spoke as though solicitous of my welfare.

“I want no valets, neither do I require rest,” I answered impatiently. “I mean to fathom this mystery.”

“But pardon me,” he said deferentially, “there is no mystery, as far as I can see. You accidentally struck your head against the statue while passing through the drawing-room, and were rendered unconscious. The blow has, according to the doctor, impaired your mental capacity a little. In a few days you’ll be all right again. Poor Mrs Heaton! – she’s awfully upset.”

“I will not have her called Mrs Heaton!” I cried in indignation. “Understand that! I have no wife – and a hag like that I certainly would never marry.” He raised his eyebrows with a gesture of regret, sighed, but hazarded no remark.

“Come,” I said, “show me over the place. It will be a most interesting visit, I’m sure.” And I laughed, reflecting upon my extraordinary position, one absolutely unparalleled in man’s history.

“But before doing so will you not sign one or two cheques?” he urged, glancing at his watch. “The postman will call for the letters in half an hour, and they must be dispatched to-day.”

“What cheques?”

“There are six,” he answered, taking out a large cheque-book and opening it. “I’ve already made them out, if you will kindly sign them.”

I glanced at them. All six were for large amounts, each considerably over a thousand pounds.

“They relate to business transactions, all of which are exceedingly good bargains,” he explained.

“Well,” I said, laughing again. “I’ve never before signed cheques for such big amounts as these. But here goes, if you wish. Whether they’ll be honoured is quite another thing.”

And I took up a pen and appended my signature to each, while he placed one by one in envelopes ready directed to receive them.

“Now,” he said at last, “if you really wish me to take you round I’ll do so, but the whole thing seems so droll and absurd that I hope, sir, you’ll excuse my doubts as to your sanity.”

“Well, why do you think I’m insane?” I asked, looking straight at him. “Do I look like a madman?”

“Not at all. With your head swathed in those bandages, you look like a man who’s received a serious injury.”

“Of course, that confounded old charlatan Britten put forward the suggestion that I’m not in my right mind!” I said. “But I tell you quite calmly, and without fear of contradiction – indeed, I could swear upon oath – that never in my life have I entered this place or set eyes upon you or upon that painted old girl before to-day. Now, if you were in my place, surely you would resent, being called husband by a woman whom you don’t know from Adam; you wouldn’t relish being condemned as a lunatic by an idiotic old country quack, and being imposed upon all round by persons in whom you have not the slightest interest.”

His face relaxed into a smile.

“If I may be permitted to advise,” he said, “I think it best not to discuss the matter further at present. A solution must present itself before long. Meanwhile your intellect will be rendered the clearer by repose.”

“I’ve already told you that I don’t intend to rest until I’ve extricated myself from this absurdly false position,” I said determinedly. “I feel absolutely certain that I’ve been mistaken for some one of the same name.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He was evidently a shrewd fellow, this man who said he was my secretary, and was apparently a very confidential servant.

“I’d like to know what to reply to Mawson’s cable,” he said. “You really ought to take some notice of such a marvellous stroke of good fortune. His discovery means fabulous wealth for you as holder of the concession.”

“My dear sir,” I said, “for mercy’s sake don’t bother me about this fellow and his confounded pans. Reply just as you like. You seem to know all about it. I don’t – nor do I want to know.”

“But in a case like this I do not care to act on my own discretion alone,” he protested. “They are evidently awaiting a reply in Dawson City.”

“Let them wait,” I said. “I don’t want to bother my head over matters in which I can have no possible concern. This alleged matrimonial alliance of mine is of far more importance to me than all the gold in the Klondyke.”

“Well, the lady is your wife, so why worry further about it?” he said.

“And how do you know, pray?”

“Because I was present at the ceremony.”

I looked at him for a moment, unable to utter further words.

“I suppose you’ll tell me next that you were my secretary in my bachelor days?” I said at last.

“Certainly I was.”

“And you say that you were actually present at the church, and saw me married?” I cried, absolutely incredulous.

“I was. You were married at St. Andrew’s, Wells Street. It was a smart wedding, too, for Mrs Fordyce was very well known in society, and had a large circle of friends.”

“Fordyce?” I echoed, puzzled.

“Yes, that was Mrs Heaton’s name before her marriage with you.”

“Then she was a widow?” I gasped.

He nodded in the affirmative.

I groaned. The affair grew more puzzling now that he declared himself an actual witness of my matrimonial misfortune.

But how could such a thing have taken place without my knowledge? It was impossible. The mystery, like the strange incidents which had preceded this remarkable situation in which I found myself, grew more and more inexplicable each hour.

We went forth, together, passing from room to room through the great country mansion. The place was handsome, of rather modern type, furnished glaringly in the manner which bespoke the parvenu. It possessed no mellow, time-worn appearance, as did the dear old Manor House beside the Severn. The furniture and hangings were too apparently of the Tottenham Court Road type, and the art displayed was that of the art furnisher given carte blanche to furnish with the newest and most fashionable fancies in the matter of wallpapers, dadoes, cornices, and art-pottery. There were art-carpets and art-curtains, art-cupboards and art-chairs, art-china and art-chintzes. Art was everywhere in painful enamel and impossible greens. There were pictures, too, but different, indeed, to the long row of noble faces with their ruffles and doublets and their arms painted on shields in the corners that looked down so solemnly in the great hall at Heaton. The pictures in that modern mansion were of the queue-de-siècle French school, daubs by the miscalled impressionists, some being rather too chic to be decent.

That a large amount of money had been expended upon the place I could not doubt, but the effect was that of dazzling the gaze by colour, and nowhere seemed there a good, comfortable old-fashioned sitting-room. All the apartments were arranged to please the eye, and not for personal comfort. The house was just the kind that a man suddenly successful in the city might set up in the vain endeavour to develop into a country gentleman; for to become such is the ideal of every silk-hatted business man, whether he trades in stocks or stockings.

“That I should be compelled to show you over your own house is, to say the least, very amusing,” said Gedge, as we were passing up the grand staircase. “If people were told of this they wouldn’t believe it possible.”

“I myself don’t believe what you tell me is possible,” I remarked. “But who gave orders for this furniture?”

“You did.”

“And who chose it – approved of the designs, and all that sort of thing?”

“You certainly did,” he answered. “Some of the ideas were, of course, Mrs Heaton’s.”

“I thought so. I don’t believe myself capable of such barbaric taste as those awful blues and greens in the little sitting-room.”

“The morning-room you mean.”

“I suppose so. The whole place is like a furniture show-room – this style complete, thirty-five guineas, and so on. You know the sort of thing I mean.”

He smiled in amusement at my words.

“Your friends all admire the place,” he remarked.

“What friends?”

“Sir Charles Stimmel, Mr Larcombe, Lady Fraser, and people of that class.”

“I never heard of them in all my life. Who are they?” I inquired, interested.

“Friends of yours. They visit here often enough. You surely ought to know them. Lady Fraser is your wife’s dearest friend.”

“Fraser?” I said reflectively. “The only Fraser I know is a baker in Clare Market, who supplies my old servant, Mrs Parker, with bread.” Then, after a pause, I added, “And you say that these people are friends of mine? Have I many friends?”

“Lots. A rich man has always plenty of good-humoured acquaintances.”

“They like to come down here for a breath of country air, I suppose, eh?” I laughed.

“That’s about it,” he answered. “A good many of them are not very sincere in their friendship, I fear. The man who has money, lives well, keeps a good table, and has choice wines in his cellar need never be at a loss for genial companions.”

“You seem to be a bit of a philosopher, my friend.” I remarked.

He smiled knowingly.

“I haven’t acted as your secretary without learning a few of the crooked ways of the world.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Don’t I always act honestly, then?” This was something entirely new.

“Nobody can be honest in finance.”

“Well,” I said, resenting his imputation, “I wasn’t aware that I had ever swindled a person of sixpence in my life.”

“Sixpences in such sums as they deal in at Winchester House don’t count. It’s the thousands.”

We passed a couple of gaping maid-servants in long-stringed caps, who stood aside, looking at me in wonder. No doubt the news that a demented man was in the house had reached the servants’ hall. I was, in fact, on show to the domestics.

“Then you mean to imply that these financial dealings of mine – of which, by the way, I have no knowledge whatsoever – are not always quite straight?” I said, as we walked together down a long carpeted corridor. He looked at me in hesitation.

“It’s, of course, business,” he answered – “sharp business. I don’t mean to imply that the dealings at Winchester House are any more unfair than those of any other financier in the City; but sometimes, you know, there’s just a flavour of smartness about them that might be misconstrued by a clever counsel in a criminal court.”

“What?” I cried, halting and glaring at him. “Now, be frank with me, Gedge. Tell me plainly, have I ever swindled anybody?”

“Certainly not,” he said, laughing. “Why, it’s this very smartness that has made you what you are to-day – a millionaire. If you had not been very wide awake and shrewd you’d have been ruined long ago.”

“Then, I suppose, I’m well known in the city, eh?”

“Your name’s as well known as Bennett’s clock, and your credit stands as high as any one’s between Ludgate Hill and Fenchurch Street.”

“Extraordinary!” I said. “What you tell me sounds like some remarkable fairy tale.”

“The balance at your banker’s is sufficient proof that what I say is truth,” he remarked. “There may be a good many fairy tales in certain prospectuses, but there certainly is none in your financial soundness.”

We wandered on from room to room. There must, I think, have been quite thirty sleeping apartments, guests’ rooms, etc, all furnished in that same glaring style, that greenery-yellow abomination miscalled art.

“The next room,” explained my secretary, as we approached the end of the corridor, “is Mrs Heaton’s boudoir. I expect she’s in there. I saw Dalton, her maid, enter a moment ago.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, leave her alone!” I said, turning at once on my heel. I had no wish to meet that awful rejuvenated hag again.

I fancy Gedge smiled, but if he did he was very careful to hide his amusement from me. He was, without doubt, a very well-trained secretary.

The thought of Mabel Anson crossed my mind. All the recollections of the dinner on the previous night, and the startling discoveries I subsequently made recurred to me at that moment, and I felt dazed and bewildered. This painted and powdered person could surely not be my wife, when I loved Mabel Anson with all my soul! Only yesterday I had sat at her side at dinner, and had felt the pressure of her soft, delicate hand upon mine. No; it could not be that I was actually married. Such a thing was utterly impossible, for surely no man could go through the marriage ceremony without knowing something about it.

Hickman’s treachery angered me. Why, I wondered, had he enticed me to his rooms in order to make that extraordinary attempt upon my life? The wound upon my head was undoubtedly due to the blow he had dealt me. The theory that I had accidentally knocked my head against the marble statue and broken it was, I felt assured, only one of that fool Britten’s brilliant ideas with which he misled his too-confiding patients. If this were so, then all the incidents subsequent to my recovery of consciousness were part of the conspiracy which had commenced on the previous night with Hickman’s attempt.

We descended the stairs, passing the footman Gill, who with a bow, said —

“I hope, sir, you feel better.”

“A little,” I answered. “Bring me a whisky and soda to the library.”

And the man at once disappeared to do my bidding. “I suppose he think’s I’m mad,” I remarked. “This is a very remarkable ménage, to say the least.”

In the great hall, as I walked towards the library, was a long mirror, and in passing I caught sight of my own figure in it. I stopped, and with a loud cry of wonder and dismay stood before it, glaring at my own reflection.

The bandages about my head gave me a terribly invalid appearance, but reflected by that glass I saw a sight which struck me dumb with amazement. I could not believe my eyes; the thing staggered belief.

On the morning before I had shaved as usual, but the glass showed that I now wore a well cut, nicely reddish-brown beard!

My face seemed to have changed curiously. I presented an older appearance than on the day before. My hair seemed to have lost its youthful lustre, and upon my brow were three distinct lines – the lines of care.

I felt my beard with eager hands. Yes, there was no mistake. It was there, but how it had grown was inconceivable.

Beyond, through the open door, I saw the brilliant sunlight, the green lawn, the bright flowers and cool foliage of the rustling trees.

It was summer. Yet only yesterday was chill, dark winter, with threatening snow.

Had I been asleep like Rip Van Winkle in the legend? “Tell me,” I cried excitedly, turning to the man standing behind me, “what’s the day of the month to-day?”

“The seventeenth of July.”

“July?” I echoed. “And what year is this?”

“Why, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, of course.”

“Ninety-six!” I gasped, standing glaring at him in blank amazement. “Ninety-six?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“Am I really losing my senses?” I cried, dismayed. “Yesterday was six years ago!”

Chapter Twenty One

Gedge Tells the Truth

“Yesterday six years ago!” he echoed, looking at me in blank bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if what you’ve told me is really the truth,” I cried, agape in wonder, “then it is the most astounding thing I’ve ever heard of. Are you absolutely certain of the date?”

“Certain? Why, of course.”

“Of the year, I mean?”

“Positive. It’s eighteen ninety-six.”

“For how long, then, have you been my secretary?” I inquired.

“Nearly five years.”

“And how long have I lived in this place?”

“For nearly four.”

“And that woman,” I demanded, breathlessly – “is she actually my wife?”

“Most certainly,” he answered.

I stood stupefied, stunned by this amazing statement.

“But,” I protested, lost in wonder, “yesterday was years ago. How do you account for that? Are you certain that you’re not deceiving me?”

“I’ve told you the absolute truth,” he responded. “On that I stake my honour.”

I stood aghast, glaring at my reflection in the mirror, open-mouthed, as though I gazed upon some object supernatural. My personal appearance had certainly changed, and that in itself convinced me that there must be some truth in this man Gedge’s statement. I was older, a trifle stouter than before, I think, and my red-brown beard seemed to give my face a remarkably grotesque appearance. I had always hated beards, and considered them a relic of prehistoric barbarity. It was surprising that I should now have grown one.

“Then according to your account I must have spent yesterday here – actually in this house?”

“Why, of course you did,” he responded. “We were engaged the greater part of the day over Laffan’s affair. Walter Halliburton, the mining engineer, came down to see you, and we were together all the afternoon. He left for London at five.”

“And where did I dine?”

“Here. With Mrs Heaton.”

“Don’t speak of her as Mrs Heaton!” I cried in anger. “She’s not my wife, and I will not have her regarded as such.”

He gave his shoulders a slight shrug.

“Now, look here, Mr Gedge,” I said, speaking for the first time with confidence. “If you were in my place, awakening suddenly to find that six years of your life had vanished in a single night, and that you were an entirely different person to that of twelve hours ago, what would you believe?”

He looked at me with a somewhat sympathetic expression upon his thin features.

“Well, I don’t know what I should think.” Then he added, “But surely such a thing can’t be possible.”

“It is possible,” I cried. “It has happened to me. I tell you that last night was six years ago.”

He turned from me, as though he considered further argument unavailing.

My head reeled. What he had told me was utterly incredible. It seemed absolutely impossible that six whole years should have passed without my knowledge; that I should have entered upon a business of which I had previously known nothing; that I should have rapidly amassed a fortune; and, most of all, that I should have married that powdered and painted woman who had presented herself as my wife. Yet such were the unaccountable facts which this man Gedge asked me to believe.