The Four Faces: A Mystery

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE BARON

  Coming so soon after the robbery at Holt, the brutal murder of SirRoland's head gardener created an immense sensation throughout bothBerkshire and Hampshire--for the Holt Manor estate, though actually inBerkshire, is also upon the border of Hampshire. The London papers, too,devoted much space to the matter, the problem they set their readers tosolve being: whether the murder could have any bearing upon the robbery.Some of the leading journals declared that both crimes must have been insome way related; others urged that this was most unlikely, and thenproceeded to "prove" the accuracy of their own individual reasoning.

  The man had been done to death in a peculiarly horrible manner. He hadbeen hit upon the back of the head with some heavy implement--probably a"jemmy" the police said when the wound, with the wounds upon theforehead, had been examined beneath a microscope. The theory they heldwas that some person had crept up unheard behind the victim--as thiscould easily have been done with snow so thick upon the ground--stunnedhim with a blow upon the back of the head, and then despatched himoutright by blows upon the forehead. No footsteps were anywherevisible, the falling snow having hidden them.

  Churchill's movements during that afternoon had in part been traced.Directly after taking to Dulcie the buckle he had found and obtainingher permission to absent himself for the afternoon, he had walked toHolt Stacey, and there caught the 4:05 train to Newbury. He hadexchanged the time of day with the ticket-collector at Newbury, who hadtaken the half of his ticket. The return half had afterwards been foundin the dead man's pocket. Where he had been, or what he had done,between 4:20--from the time he left Newbury station, on foot--and 6:10,when he had looked in at the "Dog and Clown" and had a drink and a chatwith the landlord, was unknown. He had not told the landlord why he wasin Newbury, or said anything concerning his movements in that town.

  The fact of his having bought a return ticket showed that he hadintended to return to Holt Stacey by train. But he had not gone back bytrain. The last train for Holt Stacey left Newbury at 9:11, and at 9:30he had been seen by a seedsman who kept a shop in the town, and who knewChurchill well, standing in the High Street talking to an unknown man hehad never seen before. After that, nobody appeared to have seenChurchill until--just before 10:30, at which time the inn at Holt Staceyclosed--he had come into the inn and ordered a hot drink. Nobody waswith him then. He appeared, so the innkeeper said, to already have drunkto excess, and this had surprised the innkeeper, who knew him to be atemperate man, adding that that was the first time he had ever seen himeven partially intoxicated. Incidentally Churchill had mentioned that "agentleman had given him a lift from Newbury in his car." He had not saidwho the gentleman was--if a stranger or somebody he knew, or where hewas going. Presumably the man in the car had branched off at HoltStacey--for he had not put up there for the night. Had he been going onpast Holt Manor he would, it was reasonable to suppose, have takenChurchill all the way, and dropped him at the gate.

  Soon after 10:30 Churchill had left the inn, saying that he was about towalk home to Holt Manor, a distance of four miles. That was the lasttime he was known to have been seen alive. It was snowing when heset out.

  Poor Dulcie was terribly cut up. I had always known her to be verypartial to the old gardener, who remembered her as a baby, but untilafter his death I had not realized how deeply attached to him she reallyhad been. What most distressed me was that she blamed herself,indirectly, for what had happened. Again and again did she declare to methat, had she not given him leave to take the afternoon off the tragedywould not have happened. In vain I tried to make her see the fallacy ofher argument--she would not listen to reason.

  A fortnight went by, and nothing was discovered. The secret of themurder remained even a greater mystery than the secret of the robbery.True, I had my suspicions, but until I had some slight shreds ofevidence to go upon it would, I knew, be futile to make known thosesuspicions. And it was because I suspected somebody of indirect, if notdirect, connivance at Churchill's murder, that I became more and moredistressed, indeed alarmed, at Dulcie's daily increasing affection forthe woman Stapleton. Their friendship was now firmly established--at anyrate, Dulcie's feeling of friendship for the widow. Whether the widow'sfeeling of friendship for Dulcie was actual or only apparent was, Ithought, quite another matter.

  "_Come at once. Urgent_:--_Jack_."

  That telegram reached me on this afternoon, exactly two weeks after themurder, two weeks that I had spent at Holt Manor with Dulcie, duringwhich time, I am bound to say, Aunt Hannah had revealed herself in quitea new light, being friendly, even affectionate in the extreme.

  "Don't go--oh! don't go, Mike!" Dulcie cried out, suddenly clutching myarm, after reading the telegram which I had handed to her.

  "But I must, darling," I exclaimed. "Jack wouldn't send me that wire ifthe matter were not really urgent. It has most likely to do with therobbery--I have told you that he is determined to find out who committedit, with the help of that detective friend of his, George Preston. Itmay even have to do with the other affair--or possibly with Jack beingkept confined in the house in Grafton Street."

  "I don't care what it has to do with--don't go, dearest--please don't, Iask you as a favour," and, bending over, she kissed me on the lips.

  It was horribly hard to resist such an appeal, and yet I felt I shouldbe a cur if Jack really needed me--and obviously he did--and I failed togo to him. And what would Dulcie think of me later if, through my givingway to her entreaty, some serious harm should befall my friend? Much asI loved her, I could not let her influence me in such a case; even if Idid, it might in the end make her despise me.

  "I would do anything in the world for you, sweetheart," I said, kissingher fondly. "You know that, as well as I do. I would grant you anyfavour provided--"

  "Provided what?" she asked quickly as I paused.

  "Provided that my doing so could have no harmful result. Prevent mygoing to Jack in such a crisis, and--"

  I stopped abruptly. My tongue had, alas, outrun my discretion.

  "Crisis? What crisis?" Dulcie burst forth, startled at my tone. "Oh,Mike, you are keeping something from me, you are deceiving me--don't saythat you aren't, for I know you are!"

  "Darling," I exclaimed, taking her in my arms, "I am not deceivingyou--indeed, indeed I am not. I may have been wrong in using the word'crisis.' What I meant was that, knowing that Jack and a friend of hisare striving tooth and nail to track down the thieves who robbed thishouse, and seeing that I have promised to help Jack to the best of myability, I feel that this urgent telegram of his means that somethinghas come to light, that he has heard something or discovered some cluewhich makes it imperative that I should go to him at once. And I amgoing--now."

  Quickly I released her. Then, fearing that further delay--added,possibly, to further persuasion on her part--might end by weakening mydetermination, I gave her a final kiss, and hurried out of the room.

  Again I glanced at the telegram--

  "_Come at once. Urgent.--Jack._"

  Then I crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire.

  Having arrived at Paddington I went straight to Jack Osborne's hotel.He had left word that, upon my arrival, I should be told to go to ahouse in Warwick Street, Regent Street, and there inquire for him.

  It was George Preston's address. I hastened there in a taxi, and, as Irang the bell, I heard a clock strike six. Preston himself admitted me.

  "Mr. Osborne has not yet arrived," he said as, after a word ofexplanation, we shook hands, "but I expect him any minute, and he isexpecting you. Will you come in and wait?"

  As I had not previously been to Preston's house its appearance surprisedme. One does not associate a police detective, even an ex-detective,with a taste in things artistic, but here on all sides was evidence ofrefinement and a cultured mind--shelves loaded with carefully selectedbooks, volumes by classic authors; treatises on art; standard works bydeep thinkers of world-wide repute, while on the walls hung mezzotints Iknew
to be extremely rare. In addition there were several beautifulstatues, cloisonne vases from Tokio and Osaka, antique furniture fromNaples and from Florence, also treasures from Burma, the West Indies,and New Guinea.

  The door opened, and the maid announced: "Baron Poppenheimer."

  "Ah, my dear Baron," Preston exclaimed as he advanced to meet him, "thisis a real pleasure; I didn't expect you so soon, but, as you are here,come and sit down," and he drew forward a chair. "But first let mepresent to you Mr. Michael Berrington, a friend of our mutual friendJack Osborne's."

  "Delighted to meet you--delighted, I am sure," Baron Poppenheimer said,with a slight accent, extending two fingers--a form of handshake which Iparticularly dislike. "Dreadfully cold again, is it not?--hein?Dreadfully cold, I am sure."

  His appearance rather amused me. His was a queer figure. He wore athick, dark blue box-cloth overcoat, double-breasted, with large pearlbuttons, and a wide collar of yellow fur, which came well down on theshoulders; the fur cuffs matched it. His gloves were woolly ones,lavender-coloured, and the black silk hat which he carried in his righthand was burnished until it rivalled the shine of his patent boots--the"uppers" being hidden by spats. He had curly, black hair; black, ratherbushy eyebrows; and a small imperial. While he carried a stout malaccacane with a large gold head to it, and in his left eye was a gold-rimmedmonocle secured round his neck by a broad black ribbon.

  We conversed for a little time, and from his talk I could see that hewas something of a character. He knew many of my friends, and, upon myrepeating my name to him, he seemed to know a good deal about me. Iexpressed surprise at this, whereupon he looked up at Preston, who stoodimmediately behind me, and observed drily:

  "I believe I could tell Mr. Berrington almost as much about himself as Iwas able to tell you, Preston; what do you think?"

  "Baron Poppenheimer is an extraordinarily clever clairvoyant andpalmist, Mr. Berrington," Preston said. "I place such implicitconfidence in his forecasts that I persuade him, whenever I can, to helpme in my work. Yesterday he took it into his head to read my palms, andhe told me things about myself that staggered-me--I almost begin tobelieve in black magic!"

  I became greatly interested.

  "I wish I could some day persuade the Baron to read my palms," Iexclaimed, "Palmistry has always rather appealed to me."

  "So?" Baron Poppenheimer answered. "I will read your palms for you now,if you will, I am sure."

  He took my right hand, flattened it, palm upward, on his knee, studiedit closely for a moment or two, then, after a few moments' silence,began to talk fluently and rapidly. The things he told me about myself,things I had done, even things I had only thought, made me almost gapewith amazement. Then he took my left hand, examined both sides of itclosely through his monocle, and continued his disclosures. He told meto within a day or two how long I had been engaged to be married, anddescribed Dulcie's appearance to the life; he even went so far as totell me exactly how she talked. For some moments I wondered if Prestoncould have coached the Baron in my movements; then I remembered that theBaron had told me things about myself of which Preston knew nothing.

  "And that is all I have to tell you, my dear Mike," the "Baron" suddenlyexclaimed in quite a different voice. I sprang back in my chair as Ilooked up sharply. Jack Osborne had pulled off his black, curly wig, andsat laughing loudly. Preston too was considerably amused.

  "Yes, George," Jack said at last, "that disguise will do; you certainlyare a marvel in the art of 'make-up.' If I can deceive Mike Berrington,who is one of my oldest friends, I shall be able to hoodwink anybody.Now you had better try your hand on Mike. What sort of person do youpropose to turn him into? I have told you that he is an excellent actor,and can mimic voices to perfection."

  Osborne then explained why he had telegraphed to me. Preston had made adiscovery--a rather important discovery. Exactly what it was they wouldnot tell me then, but Preston had suggested that on that very night thethree of us should visit Easterton's house in Cumberland Place, whereGastrell's reception had taken place, wearing effectual disguises whichhe would attend to, and see for ourselves what there was to be seen. Itwas Osborne, I now learned for the first time, who had effected theintroduction between Hugesson Gastrell and "Lord Cranmere"--the actualLord Cranmere had been consulted by Jack on the subject of his beingimpersonated, and when Jack had outlined to him his plan and told himwhy the detective, Preston, wished to impersonate him, Lord Cranmere hadentered into the spirit of the thing and given his consent. He had,indeed, expressed no little alarm when Jack had told him how themysterious, unseen individual at the house in Grafton Street hadcross-questioned him with regard to Eldon Hall, Cranmere's place inNorthumberland, the whereabout of the safe that Cranmere had bought tenmonths previously, the likelihood of there being a priests' hiding-holeat Eldon, and so on.

  "The whole idea regarding to-night, and our plan of action, originateswith Preston," Jack said to me. "He believes--in fact, he is almostsure--that Gastrell and his associates know nothing of him by repute asa detective, also that they don't know him by sight, or by name either.He says, however, that they believe they are now personally acquaintedwith Lord Cranmere, upon whose property we think they have evil designs.'Lord Cranmere' is now, in turn, going to introduce to Gastrell and hisassociates two particular friends of his. Those friends will be 'BaronPoppenheimer' and--who is Cranmere's other friend to be, George?" heinquired, looking up at Preston.

  "'Sir Aubrey Belston,'" Preston answered at once. "Mr. Berrington is notat all unlike Sir Aubrey, in build as well as in feature."

  "'Baron Poppenheimer' and 'Sir Aubrey Belston,'" Jack said, "who inprivate life are Jack Osborne and Michael Berrington. And if Georgedisguises you and coaches you as well as he did me, I undertake to saythat nobody will suspect that you are not actually Sir Aubrey Belston."