WILLIAM LE QUEUX: 15 Dystopian Novels & Espionage Thrillers (Illustrated Edition). William Le Queux
“Then the police are absolutely in possession of my house! Will they search it?” she inquired hoarsely.
“Search it! Certainly not,” I answered. “Of course, if foul play were suspected, they might. Otherwise they have no power without a search-warrant properly signed by a magistrate.”
“But no violence is suspected,” she exclaimed in a half whisper, glancing over to where the doctor and Beck were standing in earnest conversation. “I shall therefore be spared the indignity of having my house searched, sha’n’t I?”
“I trust so, Mrs Laing,” I replied. “But it is not such a dreadful ordeal, after all, to have one’s place rummaged.”
“No, perhaps not,” she answered thoughtfully; then, smiling, she added, “Perhaps I am foolish to regret that this terrible affair has occurred at my very door. Poor Dudley has died suddenly, and it is only right that I, his intimate friend, should do what I can to ensure the last rite being carried out in decency. But the very thought of the police unnerves me! and I fear, too, on Ella’s account. Only yesterday Dr Allenby told her that she must carefully avoid any shock.”
“But she must know the truth to-morrow,” I observed.
“Will you break the dreadful news to her?” she urged. “As her betrothed, you, perhaps, can tell her better than anyone else.”
“Unfortunately I shall be unable,” I said. “This evening I received a very urgent telegram which recalls me to town, and having now lost my last train, I must go by the 6:30 in the morning. I cannot get back before late in the evening, or it may be next day. But as soon as possible I will return straight here, and render you whatever assistance is in my power.”
“Thanks. But is your business so very urgent?” she asked.
“Of greatest importance. Poor Dudley’s tragic end has delayed me, and even this brief delay may be of most serious consequence.”
“Ah! you men in the Foreign Office are always full of deep schemes and clever diplomacy,” she smiled, toying with her mass of rings.
I laughed, but did not reply.
“Is it on Foreign Office business that you are compelled to leave us?” she persisted, glancing at me keenly, I thought, as if intent upon ascertaining the purport of the telegram I had received.
“Yes,” I replied, in wonder that she should thus evince such a strong desire to glean the nature of my business. But next instant it occurred to me that possibly she might suspect me of being implicated in some mysterious manner with my friend’s sudden end, and that, believing I desired to escape, was determined at least to know where I was going, and upon what errand.
At that moment Beck crossed to us, saying, —
“This affair is certainly most distressing, Mrs Laing. Dudley was such an excellent fellow that we must each one of us regret his loss very deeply indeed. I have just been discussing the matter with the doctor; but, of course, he can at present form no conjecture as to the cause of death.”
“Natural causes, no doubt,” chimed in the medical man, in a dry, business-like tone. “I think we may at once dismiss all idea that violence was used.”
“You think so?” inquired Mrs Laing, with eagerness. “You don’t believe, then, he has been a victim of foul play?”
“Not at all. Beyond the slight bruise on the forehead, evidently caused by the fall upon the gravel, there is no mark whatever,” the doctor answered. “Until I have made a thorough examination I cannot, of course, determine the nature of the fatal cause. By noon to-morrow we shall, I hope, know the truth.”
“He must have fallen and expired within ten minutes of leaving the house,” Beck exclaimed. “Yet when he shook hands with us he was in the highest possible spirits. How terribly sudden his end was.”
“Terrible!” I exclaimed, myself dazed by the peculiarly tragic and mysterious affair. “When he wished us adieu he could not have dreamed that his life had so nearly run its course.”
“He complained of no pain during the evening, I suppose?” the doctor inquired.
“Not to my knowledge,” Beck answered, and this statement I was compelled to endorse.
“He dined here?” Dr Allenby exclaimed, turning to Mrs Laing.
“Yes.”
“There are some remains of the food left, I presume?”
“No doubt,” she answered quickly. “But — but what do you suspect! Are the symptoms those of poisoning?” she gasped.
“I suspect nothing,” replied the doctor, with hesitation. “The fact that the hands are tightly clenched suggests a final paroxysm of pain which might possibly accrue from poison. The remains of the dinner may be required for analysis, therefore it would be advisable to keep them.”
“Very well,” she answered, a shadow of annoyance upon her face. “I’ll give orders to that effect. But surely, doctor, you do not think poor Dudley can have been poisoned in my house. If anything we had for dinner had been deleterious, all of us must have suffered.”
“No, pardon me for disagreeing,” he answered politely. “In many cases known to toxicologists, families have eaten of the same meal, and one person only has been seized with sudden illness that has proved fatal. By analysis we may obtain some clue as to the cause of Mr Ogle’s unfortunate end.”
Mrs Laing’s thin lips moved, but no sound escaped them. At last, turning suddenly, she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out from her gaze the white, haggard countenance she had so recently looked upon.
“Come,” exclaimed the doctor, sympathetically, laying his hand upon her arm. “You are trembling. This unfortunate occurrence has no doubt upset you, but you must bear up. Immediately I get home I shall send you a draught that will brace up your nerves. Take care how the sad news is broken to Miss Ella. The slightest undue excitement may affect her very seriously.”
“I have not forgotten your words yesterday, doctor,” she replied. “You are very kind. Good-night!”
They shook hands, and Dr Allenby, taking up his hat, left — an example Beck and I soon afterwards followed, passing the night at the Angel Hotel.
Throughout the dark, breathless hours sleep came not to my eyes, so full was my mind of the tragic discovery. As I lay awake, hour after hour, listening to the chiming bells, and watching the dawn struggling in between the curtains, I reflected deeply upon the strange events of that evening, and the more I pondered, the more mysterious appeared the circumstances. Foremost in my mind was the strange, inviolable secret that I felt convinced existed between Ella and Beck. Although strenuously denied by her, she had nevertheless admitted her unworthiness of my love. Yet I adored her. No woman had ever stirred my soul as she had; no woman had so completely held me under her spell. I remembered how she had seemed a trifle wan and distressed; yet that look enhanced rather than detracted from her refined beauty. Her steady refusal to enlighten me regarding the subject of her earnest conversation with Beck when I had watched them in the garden, and the significant glances she had exchanged with him across the dinner-table, had aroused within me a suspicion that, notwithstanding her declaration, she loved Beck. Again, the tone of her letter was, I now saw distinctly, such as a woman would write if she desired to break off her engagement. Yet had I not a right to demand full explanation of her extraordinary statement? had I not a right to seek the truth of her relations with this loud-spoken parvenu? Nevertheless, as I pondered, I felt half inclined to believe that my estimate of Beck was a distorted one, for his regret at the death of Dudley, and his sympathy for Mrs Laing were, I felt assured, deep, heartfelt and genuine. When at last I carefully analysed my feelings towards him, I was bound to admit within myself that jealousy was now the only cause of my bitter antipathy.
Again, other incidents increased the mystery. Mrs Laing’s dread that Ella should know of Dudley’s death was very curious, and her