A Cabinet Secret

"I do," replied the constable. "You had better let us come in and have a look round. We've been watching the house and he hasn't come out yet. My mate's round at the front, and there's a detective officer here. Get a candle and we'll go through the rooms with you."

The thought that he was to be called upon to assist in the arrest of a burglar was too much for the old man. He tremblingly invited the officer to lead the way down the stairs to the basement. While they were absent we remained at the door, expecting every minute to hear the sound of a scuffle from within. Five minutes or so later they ascended once more and the constable shook his head.

"Wherever else he is, sir," he said, addressing me, "he's not down there."

The words had scarcely left his lips before the door at the further end of the passage opened, and the Countess herself stood before us. Much to my astonishment I saw that she was in full evening dress. Her appearance was so entirely unexpected that I could only stare at her in surprise.

"What does this mean?" she enquired, with a haughtiness that sat well upon her. "Why, surely it is Sir George Manderville! What can have happened? This is rather a late hour for a call, Sir George!"

I explained what had occurred, told her of the man I had seen enter by the side door, and whom I was perfectly certain had not come forth again.

"Then he must be in the house now," she cried in a voice of alarm. "Who can it be, and who could possibly have let him in?"

"Some dishonest member of your household," I replied. "It would be as well if you were to find out who that person is. In the meantime, let me beg of you to permit the officers to search the house."

To this she willingly assented, at the same time bidding the steward rouse the housekeeper.

"While the search is proceeding won't you come to my boudoir, Sir George?" she said. "I have been sitting there reading since I returned from the theatre, and I am quite sure that the wretch, whoever he may be, is not in that part of the building."

I followed her to the room in question, which was on the other side of the house, and we were about to enter it, when the sound of a footstep upon the stairs attracted my attention, and I looked up, to see her cousin, Count Reiffenburg, descending towards us.

"What is the matter?" he asked. "Why, Sir George Manderville, I did not expect to find you here!"

I briefly explained the situation to him, whereupon he remarked, with that curious smile upon his face: – "It seems that you are destined always to prove our benefactor. But while we are talking here the man may make his escape. I think I will go round with the police, and see if I can be of any assistance to them."

He left us, and for something like ten minutes the Countess and I waited for the sound that was to proclaim the capture of the intruder. But no such good fortune rewarded us. If the man were in the house – and of this I had no doubt – he had managed to conceal himself so effectually that the police could not find him. In the meantime the housekeeper had put in an appearance, and was despatched to interrogate the female domestics, and discover, if possible, who it was that had opened the door. She returned with the information that she had found all the maid-servants in bed and asleep, while the steward was equally certain that none of the men under his charge had anything to do with the occurrence. At last, after searching the house, the police were compelled to confess that they were at a loss to understand what had become of him.

"But there can be no doubt about his being here," I declared; "I distinctly saw him enter. He was an old man, very ragged, with long grey hair, and stooped as he walked. The detective officer who was with me at the time can also corroborate what I say, if necessary."

"That is not necessary, for of course we accept your word," said Reiffenburg with elaborate politeness. "The question is: if, as you say, he entered, where is he now? He cannot have vanished into space, and we have searched every corner without success."

"Then he must have an accomplice in the house who is hiding him," I returned. "If both exits have been guarded, he cannot have got out."

By this time I was beginning to wish that I had had nothing to do with the matter. The Countess, however, was profuse in her thanks to me, for what she described as "a most considerate and friendly act."

Seeing that I could be of no further use to her, I apologized for my intrusion and bade them good-night.

"Should we by any chance manage to secure the fellow, I will let you know," said Reiffenburg, as we stood together at the front door. "I fear, however, we shall not be so fortunate."

There was a sneer in his voice, for which I could have kicked him. However, I kept my temper, and murmuring something to the effect that I was glad to have been of service, I took my departure, and the door closed behind me.

"That was one of the most extraordinary affairs I have ever known," I said to the detective, as we turned our faces homewards. "I am quite at a loss to account for it."

The detective stopped suddenly and looked at me.

"The lady and gentleman are particular friends of yours, sir, I understand, and I don't know in that case whether I ought to tell you what is in my mind. But I fancy I could throw a rather unexpected light upon the affair."

"Speak out, then, by all means," I answered. "What was it you noticed?"

"This, sir," he said, and as he spoke he took from his pocket a small piece of black matter about half the size of a pea. He handed it to me and asked if I had seen it before. I informed him that I was quite sure I had not.

"It only bears out, sir, what I was saying as we came down Park Lane, just before we reached Wiltshire House. If it weren't for little things, that they overlook, we shouldn't be able to lay our hands on half the criminals we want. Now mind you, sir, I don't mean to infer by that that your friend Count Reiffenburg is a criminal. Not at all; that would be a very wrong thing to say. He's probably been playing a practical joke, as gentlemen will. The fact, however, remains that he gave himself away with that little lump of black stuff, just as surely as Bill Coakes of the Minories did when he gave his sweetheart the silk handkerchief that he picked up in old Mrs Burgiss's bedroom. He didn't think it was of any importance, but she wore it, quarrelled with a girl over it, the police came to hear of it, and Bill was caught. So it was just that slip that brought him to the gallows."

"I do not understand you," I replied, still holding the tiny bit of black stuff in my hand. "What is the connection between this substance and Count Reiffenburg?"

"It's the key to the whole puzzle, sir," he said, and took it from me.

Turning his face away, he put his hand to his mouth, and then wheeling round again, parted his lips and showed me his teeth. The eye-tooth on the right-hand side was missing. He put up his hand once more, and lo! it was restored to its place.

"That's what I mean, sir," he said. "Now I noticed, when the gentleman came downstairs, that one of his eye-teeth were missing. He wanted to make himself look old, I suppose, and when he had taken off the other pieces, had forgotten to remove that one. Then he must have remembered it, for his hand went up to his mouth, and next minute it was on the floor, where I managed to get hold of it."

"Do you mean to infer that the old man we saw enter the house was the Count Reiffenburg?" I asked, aghast.

"That is my belief, sir," said the man; "and I feel certain that if I were allowed to search his bedroom, I should find my suspicions corroborated."

"But what possible reason could he have for masquerading as a pauper outcast, and who let him in?"

"As to his reason, sir, I can hazard no sort of guess," he continued. "But it was the lady herself who let him in."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"By a process of simple reasoning, sir. Did you happen to notice that, when we returned to the hall after our search of the first section of the house, the gentleman carried a book in his hand?"

"Now that you mention the fact I do remember it," I answered. "But what has the book to do with it?"

"A great deal," he answered. "You may not be aware of the fact, but there's a small sitting-room near that side door – a tiny place where the housekeeper does her accounts. The book, when we first searched the room, was lying upon the table."

"May not the housekeeper have been reading it before she went to bed?"

"The housekeeper is an Englishwoman, sir, and not very well educated. I should call it remarkable if she knew Italian, and little short of marvellous if she read Dante in the original. Now, sir, when Count Reiffenburg entered the lady's boudoir, he brought that book with him and placed it on one of the tables. He wouldn't have done that if it had been the property of the housekeeper, would he? No, sir! Count Reiffenburg was out, and the young lady, who is his cousin, I think I understood you to say, sir, sat up for him in order to be near the door. That's the way I read the riddle."

"And I must confess that you have a certain amount of probability on your side," I answered. "At the same time, if I were you, I should say nothing about the discovery. It can serve no good purpose to bruit it abroad. Do you think the two policemen noticed anything of the kind?"

The detective gave a scornful little laugh. "I don't think you need have much fear on that score, sir," he answered. "I doubt very much whether the man who went round with me noticed the book at all. His theory was that the fellow we saw enter was one of the servants who had been out late, and not a burglar at all."

By this time we had reached my own residence, and I bade the man good-night upon the steps. Having let myself in, I went to my study to deposit some papers I had brought with me from the House, then to my bedroom and to bed. The incident at Wiltshire House annoyed me, if only for the reason that I could not understand it. What could the young Count Reiffenburg have been doing – if it were he, as the detective declared – wandering about London in that attire? That in itself was bad enough, but it was made much worse by the knowledge that his beautiful cousin had been conniving at his escapade. One thing was quite certain; if I had entertained a dislike for Reiffenburg before, it was doubled now. At last, tired by my long day and the events that had concluded it, I fell asleep, and did not wake until I opened my eyes to find Williams standing beside my bed, overcome with excitement and horror.

"What is the matter, man?" I cried. "What makes you look like that?"

"There's terrible news, sir," he faltered. "There's been a lot lately, but this is the worst of all."

"What is the matter, man?" I cried for the second time. "Don't stand there trembling. Tell me what has happened."

"I scarcely know how to tell you, sir," he answered, his voice almost failing him.

"Then give me the paper and let me look for myself," I said, and took it from him. On the page before me, in large type, was an announcement that made me feel sick and giddy: —

"ASSASSINATION OF THE PRIME MINISTER!"

My horror was greater even than Williams's had been. I read the heavy black lines over and over again, as if unable to grasp their meaning. The Prime Minister dead! My old friend and Chief murdered! Could it be possible?

When I had recovered my composure a little, I took up the paper, and tried to read the account there set forth. There had only been time for the insertion of a short paragraph, but its importance was such that it would ring throughout the world. It ran as follows: —

"It is with a sorrow that cannot be expressed in words, that we record the fact that the Right Honourable, the Earl of Litford, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister of England, was assassinated soon after midnight. The Prime Minister was last seen alive by his private secretary, in the study at his residence at Grosvenor Square. He had left the House of Lords early, but, with the exception of a slight headache, appeared to be in the best of health and spirits. The presumption is that he was stabbed in the back, but how the wound was inflicted, and by whom, are matters which, at present, cannot be explained."

I could find no words to express my horror and surprise. It was only a few hours since he had congratulated me upon my speech in answer to the accusations of certain members of the Little Englander Party; now England was bereft, by as foul an act as had ever been committed in the annals of crime, of one of her greatest statesmen and of one of her noblest sons.

Craving further particulars, I dressed with all speed, and then drove to his residence in Grosvenor Square. Leaving my cab, I walked towards the well-known house, before which a large number of people had collected. Recognising me, they allowed me to pass, and so I gained the front door of the house I had so often entered as the friend and colleague of the dead man. I was shown into the morning-room, where presently I was joined by the secretary, who, as the newspapers had reported, had been the last to see him before the tragedy took place.

"Tell me about it," I said, after we had greeted each other.

From his narrative I gathered that the dead man, on his return from the House, after spending half-an-hour with his wife, went to his study. His secretary followed him there, to ascertain if he could be of any further assistance to him. He found him seated at the table writing, and was informed by him that he required nothing more, and that it would not be very long before he himself retired to rest.

"Was the window in the study open?" I asked.

"No," he answered; "it was closed, and the shutters were barred. That was at half-past eleven. At half-past twelve, wondering why her husband did not come upstairs, Lady Litford went in search of him. Her horror may be pictured when she discovered him, seated in his chair, quite dead. He had been stabbed to the heart from behind."

"And were there no traces of any one having entered the room?"

"Not one. The police have taken possession of it, but so far they have been unable to discover any trace of the assassin's entry or the means by which he effected his departure."

"And Lady Litford? How does she bear up under the blow?"

"So bravely, that it makes one's heart ache to see her."

Then, at my request, he conducted me upstairs, and I was permitted to gaze upon the face of the dead man. It was as peaceful as in life's serenest moments, calm and dignified – the face of a man who has done his duty to his Sovereign and his country, and whose life has been given in her service. Then, with a sorrow in my heart greater than I had known for many years, I looked my last upon the face of the dead, and I left the room.

When I had sent a message of deepest sympathy to the widow, I bade the secretary good-bye, and left the house. So awe-struck was the crowd by the magnitude of the tragedy, that scarcely a sound came from it, though, as if in proof of sympathy, here and there a hand was stretched out to me.

"He was a good man and a proper gentleman," said a burly costermonger. "It's a pity we hadn't more like him."

It seemed to me that that homely speech was as fine an eulogium of the dead as could have been spoken by the most cultured tongue.

I often wonder now what I should have done, had I known the part I had unconsciously played in that terrible drama. At that moment, lying, no one knew where – perhaps in the crevice of some paving-stone, or carried into the water-table by a passing shower – was a small piece of black wax, which, could it have spoken, would have been able to tell a tale without its equal for treachery and villainy in all the world. How I became aware of this, you will learn as my story progresses.

CHAPTER VI

The catalogue of woes, which it has been my ill-fortune to be compelled to chronicle, is indeed a long one, but of all the items I have set down, none had had such a terrible effect upon the public mind as the assassination of the Prime Minister. Expressions of genuine sorrow poured forth from every side, and party feeling, for the time being at least, was forgotten. Even the most antagonistic of the Continental journals, though perhaps rejoicing in their hearts at Great Britain's misfortune, admitted that she was passing through a time of severe trial, and while they prophesied our ultimate downfall, showed very plainly their admiration for our fortitude. Indeed the self-control of the nation at this particular period was a little short of marvellous. The war was draining her of her best blood; those at the helm of the Ship of State were being one by one mysteriously done away with; she had been the victim of a vast scheme of false intelligence, her great arsenal had been blown up and the supply of munitions of war thereby seriously imperilled at the most critical juncture; a large proportion of her army were prisoners in the enemy's hands, and three other portions were locked up in beleaguered towns. Yet, with it all, she continued the struggle with as much determination as she had first entered upon it. The bull-dog tenacity permeated all classes; it was shared by the peer, the country squire, the small farmer, the tradesman and the artizan; it was voiced by the Prime Minister, and echoed by the costermonger. Whatever it might cost, England was resolved to win in the end. That end, however, was still far off, and much blood would have to be spilt and a large amount of money spent before we should be able to call ourselves the victors.

Meanwhile, troops were still pouring out of England, and more were hastening to her assistance from Australia and Canada. Even in these loyal portions of the Empire, however, strenuous efforts were being made by some mysterious power, upon which it was impossible to lay hands, to undermine their affection for the mother country. Treasonable pamphlets were distributed broadcast; an infernal machine was discovered on board a troop-ship on the point of sailing from a Queensland port; another was discovered on board a transport in Sydney harbour; while a third vessel, owing to the wilful carelessness of the captain, who was afterwards arraigned on a charge of High Treason, but was acquitted for want of sufficient evidence, was put ashore, with all her troops on board, on the coast of South Australia. It was in Canada, however, that the trouble was worst. Its proximity to the United States favoured the Fenian propaganda, and, despite the loyalty of the French Canadians – of which no one felt a doubt – an attempt was made to induce them to swerve in their allegiance to the Empire. Such was the state of affairs when Lord Litford's successor took up the reins of office.

It must not be thought that, because they achieved no result, the police were lax in their attempts to discover the perpetrator or perpetrators of that cruel crime. To employ again that well-worn phrase, not a stone was left unturned to arrive at an understanding of the manner in which the deed was done. One thing was quite certain, it had been carefully planned; but then so had the disappearance of Woller and the Colonial Secretary. The destruction of Woolwich Arsenal was a work of devilish ingenuity; while the blowing up of the transport Sultan of Sedang at Madeira was arranged to a nicety. In the case of the Prime Minister, the servants and members of his household were interrogated, but were all dismissed from the case as being beyond suspicion. They unitedly declared that, to the best of their belief, no stranger had entered the house up to the time of their going to bed, nor had any suspicious person been seen in its vicinity during the day. Moreover, the police on duty in the Square had been instructed to keep a watchful eye upon the house, and they were able to affirm that they had seen no one loitering near the Prime Minister's residence from the earliest hours of morning until the time that the news of the tragedy was made known. Yet the fact remained that some one had entered the house, and had been able to make his way unobserved to the library, where the crime was committed, and afterwards to get out again undiscovered. Needless to say, a large reward was offered by the authorities for any information which would lead to a conviction; but though a multitude of communications were received in answer to it, from all sorts and conditions of people, not one was of any value.

On the Friday following the assassination of the Prime Minister, and the day before the funeral, according to custom I took a constitutional in the Park before going down to my office. As a matter of fact I was somewhat earlier than usual, and for that reason, with the exception of a few riders in the Row, and the customary bicycle contingent, the Park was comparatively empty. I entered by the Grosvenor Gate, walked as far as the Barracks, and then retraced my steps towards Piccadilly, passing along the north bank of the Serpentine. I had several difficult problems to work out that day, and one of them was occupying my mind as I walked beside the lake. Suddenly a voice I recognised fell upon my ear, and I looked up to find, seated a few paces distant from me, no less a person than the Countess de Venetza. She was engaged in an earnest conversation with a dark, foreign-looking individual, an Italian, without the shadow of a doubt. The Countess did not see me at first, but, as soon as she did, she said something hurriedly to the man beside her and came forward to greet me.

"You are out early, Sir George," she began. "The Park is delightful at this time of the day, is it not?"

"Delightful indeed," I replied. "I did not expect, however, to have the pleasure of meeting you in it."

"I walk here almost every morning," she answered. And then, after we had uttered a few commonplaces, she continued: "And now, while I think of it, let me apologize to you for my rudeness in having omitted to thank you again for the great service you rendered us on the occasion of the burglary at Wiltshire House. Had it not been for your prompt action, we should have been more seriously robbed, while it is quite possible that something worse might have happened."

"You say that you might have been 'more seriously robbed'?" I returned. "Am I to understand, then, that the man was found in the house after all?"

"He was not found in the house," she replied. "But we have discovered by what means he effected his escape from it. While Conrad and the police were looking for him downstairs, he was hidden in a dressing-room adjoining that which used to be my father's apartment, at the back of the house. When they ascended the stairs he opened the window and lowered himself down to a roof below. Then he must have made his way through the mews at the back and reached safety again. In proof of this a small silver ornament, one of the few missing things, was found next day in the guttering of the roof."

If this were so, then the detective's statement to the effect that the man who had entered the house was none other than young Reiffenburg was altogether beyond the mark, and would only serve to show the folly of judging by purely circumstantial evidence.

"In that case, who do you suspect of having admitted him to the house?" I enquired, for this was a point of considerable importance.

"An under-footman," she replied, "who has since been discharged. His behaviour struck Conrad as being rather suspicious at the time, but it was not until other things were found to be missing, that we derived a real knowledge of his character."

"I am rejoiced to know that the mystery has been solved," I said. "But pray forgive me, Countess; see, I have driven your friend away."

She gave a start before she replied.

"He is not my friend," she answered somewhat hurriedly, "merely a begging compatriot. The poor fellow is a teacher of music, who puts forward his art as a claim upon my bounty. He is anxious to return to Italy, but cannot do so for want of means."

Now there was one point about this speech that I did not understand. As I had approached the seat, I distinctly heard the foreigner say authoritatively in Italian: "It is the order of the Council and must be obeyed." Of course the words might have meant anything, but the tone was certainly one of authority. It struck me as being peculiar that an impoverished music-master, soliciting the Countess's assistance, should address her in such a tone. Why I should have bothered myself with the fellow's affairs I cannot say. The impulse, however, was irresistible.