The Mayfair Mystery Page 6

  ‘What do I think about Miss Clive, eh? Well, nothing. This is what I have heard. If the girl were not so stupid and so plain, she would be quite a pleasant creature. But, in addition, the poor thing has got no figure, no style. In fact, she is pure Brompton Road. No, not quite that. She’s a Kensington girl with a Bayswater manner—a West Kensington girl with a North Bayswater manner, to be exact.’

  Harding gave him the lie.

  ‘Nothing of the sort. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, and one of the most charming. Her figure is superb. Kensington, indeed! Bayswater, forsooth!’

  Clifford looked at him. He seemed on the point of bursting into laughter, but he controlled himself.

  ‘I think you’ve taken a fancy to her, you know.’

  ‘My dear chap,’ protested the K.C., ‘I’ve only seen her once.’

  ‘Twice,’ corrected Clifford. ‘You know you have seen her twice.’

  Surprised, he answered, ‘Yes, I have seen her twice. But how did you know? Did she tell you? She couldn’t have told you?’

  ‘No, she didn’t tell me, but I…know.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you know that I called upon her.’

  ‘My dear George, there are many things that even a man of your great intellect will go to his tomb without understanding. Have you ever understood a woman yet?’

  ‘I have never wanted to, until now.’

  ‘May I take it, George,’ he inquired very seriously, but with more of a suggestion of mockery in his seriousness, ‘that you are anxious to understand Miss Clive?’

  The barrister made no definite reply.

  ‘I am anxious,’ he said, ‘for you to tell me anything you know about your tenant.’

  ‘Whether good or evil?’

  ‘Whether good or evil.’

  Clifford spoke deliberately.

  ‘I don’t know that I can tell you much. She has taken my house and she pays me £2000 a year—a quarter in advance. Therefore I gather that she is wealthy. From your behaviour I assume that she is beautiful.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ exclaimed the K.C., ‘wonderfully beautiful! Do you mean to say you have never seen her?’

  ‘No, I have never…actually…seen her.’

  Harding sincerely hoped that he never would. Clifford was obviously a handsomer man than he, . and he had a far more effective manner of dealing with women. Besides, Clifford had led a romantic life in London. Hundreds of women had been at his feet, and it was marvellous that his reputation as a breaker of women’s hearts had not interfered with his practice. A less skilful specialist would have been ruined had one fourth of the stories that were told about Clifford collected round his name.

  ‘Perhaps, if ever you ask her to dinner, you might ask me. But I daresay I’m asking too much.’

  Harding’s hand was forced.

  He affected enthusiasm. ‘My dear fellow, delighted! She’s dining with me at the Carlton on Friday. Do come.’

  Much to his relief the physician replied:

  ‘Thanks very much, but Friday is impossible.’ With a queer look in his eyes, he added: ‘If she is as beautiful as you say, it would not be at all a bad idea for me to call on her. I suppose it wouldn’t be a breach of etiquette for a landlord to call on his tenant—especially on such a good tenant?’

  Harding shrugged his shoulders, as though it were a moot point.

  ‘Or I might get Mudge to ask me to meet her, as he asked you to meet her.’

  ‘Now why do you suppose he did that?’

  ‘Would you really like to know, George? Well, I asked him to.’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘Certainly. Mind you, I settled the whole thing with her by correspondence. She gave me to understand that she knew nobody in London. I don’t know whether it was her handwriting that inspired confidence, but when she paid the £500 down there was no room for doubt. However, I was interested in the woman in a vague sort of way: so I arranged with her and Mudge that she should dine with him and that you should be asked. I wanted to have two expert opinions on my tenant. Thus it was that you met her the day after she took possession of 69 Pembroke Street. I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you and Mudge are favourably impressed. I think you are more favourably impressed than Mudge. But then Mudge is Mudge, and married to Mrs Mudge. How rarely it happens, George, that other men’s wives are as unattractive as Mrs Mudge.’

  Harding stared into his eyes.

  ‘Would you mind telling me precisely how much of this rigmarole is a lie?’

  Clifford laughed:

  ‘Do you know, old chap, if I were to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, it would sound infinitely falser than what I have said? I have told you something that is not altogether plausible. But, making a certain allowance for eccentricity on my part, and perhaps on the part of the lady you so much admire, the story is quite probable. If I were you, I should accept it as truth. You and I, George, are old friends. You know that it has been my object in life to get out of life all that life holds. I am in love with life, but life does not satisfy me. Perhaps I want more in life than there is. It may be that I want a miracle. It may be that I can effect a miracle. But even if I can, even if I have, I doubt whether I shall ever be satisfied. You may take it from me, old chap, that I have not sought for a new sensation at your expense. I am telling you all that you need know about Miss Clive. I am telling you probably infinitely more than she will ever tell you. You are an expert cross-examiner. In the Law Courts you can rob souls of their secrets. But I doubt whether you will extract any statement from Miss Clive beyond “I am Miss Clive of 69 Pembroke Street”. Sixty-nine! Curious numerals.’

  ‘Do you think she will be reticent as to her Christian name?’

  ‘Oh, I myself will tell you that! Her Christian name is Miriam. Strangely enough it is my favourite name.’

  A gleam of enthusiasm shot from the lawyer’s eyes.

  ‘It is the most beautiful name in all the world!’

  Her name seemed to him, if possible, even more beautiful than her telephone number, which was saying much.

  CHAPTER XII

  AT THE CARLTON

  ON returning to his house he, not without deep thought, wrote six notes.

  Each contained an invitation to the Carlton to dinner at a quarter past eight on the following Friday. Each was written to a charming man or a beautiful woman. He felt that only the most attractive people of his acquaintance were worthy to meet Miss Clive, and he doubted, in his heart, if even they were worthy.

  Love is the most selfish of all pursuits. Even now, he felt a sensation of jealousy. These extra six persons would be playing unnecessary parts in the drama of his life.

  Though they were unnecessary to the drama of his life, yet they were indispensable to convention. It would be fitting that the supers should be the most agreeable that he could muster.

  As he looked at the names on the envelopes, he felt confident that Miriam would be pleased with his guests. They would do him honour as guests. It is not every man who can, at three days’ notice, obtain the attendance at dinner of three eminent men and three beautiful women.

  A shade of fear came over him as he reflected that it was entirely possible that they might all be engaged. If the worst came to the worst, he would be able to find adequate substitutes.

  The servants had gone to bed; so he, himself, went to the pillar-box and posted the notes.

  Before sleep came to his eyelids, he had spent much time in picturing the dinner.

  It would be a perfect dinner. He would go to the Carlton on his way back from the Temple the next afternoon; he would consult with M. Jacques and with Auguste Shurin: the three of them would produce a masterpiece of culinary art on Friday next.

  Suddenly an idea struck him.

  Suppose she were a Roman Catholic! The menu would be all wrong!

  Though he, like most men, practised no form of religion, and was only content to do what was right in the world’s eyes and
to obey the world’s rules, he considered that the mystical rites of the Catholic creed threw an additional charm over a woman. To all the senses the Catholic religion appealed. It gratified the eye with the miracles of the painter’s and the sculptor’s art. The intoxicating perfume of incense penetrated to the innermost cells of the brain and floated there. The mysterious and voluptuous music played havoc with the heart. The religion had all the charms of love. A woman nurtured in that creed had been rehearsing for the advent of passion. If she were, in fact, a Catholic, he knew that she would be devout where the regulations of her faith were concerned.

  He turned on the electric light and looked at his watch.

  It was twelve o’clock.

  He would ring her up and ask her whether she were a Roman Catholic.

  It would be a great joy to him to hear from her lips at midnight that this was her faith.

  He pictured her in bed, around her neck, hanging in a tiny bag, a model of the Virgin.

  ‘Confound it,’ he said suddenly, ‘I am insane with love. I know she is out of town.’

  He turned out the light and fell into a troubled sleep. Every now and again he awoke, always with a feeling of deep oppression. Time was not passing, Friday would never come.

  The eventful day came and he found himself in the Palm Court at the Carlton, seated on a green wicker chair.… Mr William Gillett was in the offing.

  On his right-hand side was Lady Griselda Oakshott, who, in spite of being a Christian scientist, had retained her looks, and in most things her power of judgment. To her was talking Sir Findlay Jackson, the only unmarried Judge on the Bench, a man who in addition to this distinction was never a buffoon in office hours; his duller colleagues on the Bench maintained that he had no sense of humour. Lord Lashbridge, remarkable for a note of asceticism in his appearance, chatted to the beautiful Mrs Tudway, our leading living authority on toques. She it was who made strenuous pilgrimages to Paris four times a year, and, on her return to London, solved for the benefit of her less erudite sisters the great toque question. All that could be known about hats she knew. Anything that could be called a hat without exactly looking like a hat (in the eyes of a man) she could wear. So svelte was her figure, so dignified without being repellent was her bearing, that she could give the cachet of the inevitable to the most improbable toque.

  Harding turned to Mrs Onslow-Parker, a beautiful widowette.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said, ‘that Sir Clifford Oakleigh couldn’t come. I know you like him.’

  She raised her lashes.

  ‘Everybody likes him—except his patients.’

  Harding’s eyes questioned her.

  ‘I don’t know what he has been doing lately,’ she answered. ‘He appears to be so busy that he can’t do any work.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I happen to know one or two people who have been anxious to see him lately and he has not been able to give them an appointment. You know nowadays, no self-respecting woman ever has an illness that is not supervised by him. They would rather die under Clifford than recover under anybody else. Well, my friends have tried to make appointments and he has declined to fix a day. He has made some absurd excuse. And, do you know, I am afraid my unfortunate friends will get well…perhaps they won’t even have an operation at all.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I know that there is nothing more unfashionable than robust health.’

  She babbled on:

  ‘My dear Mr Harding, everything that is difficult is unfashionable. It is vulgar to be well: it is bad taste to be rich: it is odd to be honest. In fact, we are in for a boom of the negative virtues.’

  ‘I suppose,’ he answered, ‘negative virtues are positive vices, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she smiled, ‘one gets so mixed up with virtues and vices nowadays. What is one man’s vice is another man’s virtue.’

  ‘And what is one woman’s virtue?’ he asked.

  ‘Good Heavens!’ she replied, ‘I don’t think that virtue has ever got thoroughly acclimatised in this wicked world of ours.’

  He looked nervously at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eight.

  ‘Who are you waiting for?’ she inquired.

  ‘A Miss Clive.’

  She fanned herself with mock petulance.

  ‘Well, one doesn’t wait long for an unmarried girl, I trust. One should never wait for an unmarried girl. For a married woman you can wait ten minutes—never a minute more.’

  ‘And for a widow?’ he inquired.

  ‘Almost as long as for an actor.’

  ‘Oh, if you are foolish enough to ask an actor to a meal you deserve that he shouldn’t come…which he probably wouldn’t. No self-respecting actor would ever dream of being…punctual…’

  Then she broke off:

  ‘Is she very beautiful, this Miss Clive? Do you know, Mr Harding, that for a K.C. you seem singularly ill at ease. You look almost as though you expected to be cross-examined yourself.’

  There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘You look as though someone would suddenly come into the hall and expose the secrets of your hideous past before us all.’

  He hardly heard her. He made a spontaneous movement towards the door.

  Miss Clive entered.

  The eyes of everybody in the Palm Court turned towards her.

  A few ladies ceased staring at Mr William Gillett.

  In some cases, men nudged women; in others, women nudged men.

  Instantly Harding knew that his appreciation of Miriam was shared by everybody present. Clearly he was justified in having fallen in love at first sight.

  More radiant in her beauty than ever, she glided towards him.

  ‘My dear chap,’ she said, ‘I’m devilish late.’

  Then she seemed to remember herself and added:

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Harding, I don’t know what I was thinking of!’

  CHAPTER XIII

  A LITTLE DINNER

  A GLANCE at Shurin proved to Harding that his guests found favour in the sight of that most eminent of maîtres d’hôtel.

  As the little party seated itself at a round table it was evident that they had caused a flutter of interest. Harding could see that men were inquiring of women, and women of men, as to the identity of Miss Clive.

  She was in high spirits and talked brilliantly. In fact, she absorbed more than her share of the conversation. On all subjects she spoke as one having authority. She talked with a confidence unusual in a young girl. Without the aggressive self-assurance of a blue-stocking, she yet seemed extraordinarily confident in her own knowledge. She corrected Lord Lashbridge on a detail connected with yellow fever in Sierra Leone. She appeared entirely conversant with the leading cases that had been tried by Sir Findlay Jackson. Further, she knew by sight, at any rate, the distinguished and fashionable people in the room. About many of them she told amusing and intimate anecdotes.

  Lashbridge evidently took an interest in her. He was puzzled, and every now and again threw inquiring glances at his host.

  The conversation drifted on to the subject of the disappearance of Miss Mingey.

  Sir Findlay Jackson thought that it might be a case of dual identity. Such things, he said, had frequently occurred. It was perfectly possible for a person to forget suddenly his or her identity and to become, for a space of time, an entirely different individual.

  ‘One of the strangest cases of the sort I ever heard of,’ said Miss Clive, ‘was that of a Congregational minister in New York. The Rev. Mr Briggs his name was. One morning he went out from his home, stating that he would return for dinner. He went to the bank and withdrew £100 to pay for a piece of land he had bought. He was seen to enter a tramcar, and that was the last of him for the time being. Now, what do you think was the sequel?’

  No one was prepared with an answer.

  The girl continued:

  ‘He appeared suddenly in a town in one of the Southern S
tates, a thousand miles from his home, under the name of Gibbs. He rented a small shop and set up in business as a grocer. One day he suddenly rushed into the shop next door and asked what the name of the town was. The man had no knowledge of how he had got to his present surroundings. He could not understand why he was a grocer. He had never had any desire to be a grocer. He had no particular talent for selling groceries. He stated that he was a Congregational minister. People maintained that he was mad. But he was not. However, on being hypnotised, his recollection came back to him and he was able to recall the circumstances under which he left home.’

  ‘That’s most extraordinary,’ said the Judge. ‘In my own profession it has often struck me as entirely inexplicable why people, who have hitherto led irreproachable lives, should suddenly commit crimes which can in no possible way benefit them.’

  Miss Clive told him that the dual identity theory afforded a satisfactory solution.

  But the Judge would not hear of it.

  ‘Then we should have no criminals!’ he exclaimed, a condition of things which he apparently deprecated.

  ‘My dear Sir Findlay,’ said the girl, earnestly, ‘it would be quite possible for you, on your way home tonight, to forget that you are a judge of the High Court and to believe yourself to be a stockbroker.’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ he protested. ‘How horrible!’

  ‘A curious thing occurred in 1903,’ she continued. ‘A workman left King’s Cross at 6.45 on Monday morning to go to his work in Wardour Street. He looked at the clock at the Euston Hotel as he passed it at 6.50. Then five and a half days were cut out of his life. Of what occurred on those days he remembers nothing. But at 4 p.m. on Saturday he found himself in a strange town. On inquiring of a policeman, he ascertained that he was in Leighton Buzzard: he had never been in Leighton Buzzard before; he had never heard of Leighton Buzzard; he did not know there was such a place as Leighton Buzzard. The condition of his boots and his blistered feet indicated that he had walked all the way. Really, Sir Findlay, even the best of us have no security for our future good behaviour. Only last year, a barrister in Paris, a man of very great ability; with a big practice and entirely devoted to his wife, a man of the highest moral character, suddenly had a quarrel with his stepfather, the result of which was a complete loss of memory. He left home and plunged into the most terrible dissipation for three weeks.’