Book: Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces

T >> Thomas W. Hanshew >> Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces




These things, when Cleek heard of them, affected him not at all. He
seemed not to care whether his career was ended or not, whether the
world praised or censured. Neither his pride nor his vanity was stirred
even to the very smallest degree.

But Narkom, loyal still, took these gloomy prophecies and editorial
vapourings much to heart and strove valiantly to confound the man's
detractors and to put the spur to the man himself. He would not believe
that the end had come, that his mental powers had run suddenly against a
dead wall beyond which there was no possibility of proceeding. Something
was weighing upon his mind and damping his spirits that was all; and it
must be the business of those who were his friends to take steps to
discover what that something was and, if possible, to eliminate it. He
therefore sought out Dollops and held secret conclave with him; and
Dollops dolefully epitomized the difficulty thus: "A skirt--that's
what's at the bottom of it, sir. No letter at all these ten days past.
She's chucked him, I'm afraid." And with this brief preface told all
that he was able to tell; which, after all, was not much.

He could only explain about the letter that used to come off and on in
the other days and which brought such a flow of high spirits to the man
for whom it was intended; he could only say that it was addressed in a
woman's hand and bore always the one postmark; and when Narkom heard
what that postmark was and recollected where Lady Chepstow's country
seat lay, and who was with her, he puckered up his lips as if he were
about to whistle and made two slim arches with his uplifted eyebrows.

"Sir, if only you could sneak off and run down there without his knowing
of it--it wouldn't do to write a letter, Mr. Narkom: he'd be on to that
before you could turn round, sir," the boy ventured hopefully; "but if
only you could run down there and give her a tip what she's a doing of
and what she's a chuckin' away, what a Man she's a throwin' down, maybe,
sir, maybe--"

"Yes, 'maybe,'" agreed the superintendent, after a moment's reflection.
"At any rate it's worth a trial." And went, forthwith.

Not that it was a prudent thing to do; not that it is wise for any man
at any time to interfere, even with the best intentions, with the course
of another man's love affairs; and, finally, not that it was at all
necessary or had any influence whatsoever upon the events which
succeeded the step. Indeed, he might have spared himself the trouble,
for he had barely covered a fifth of the distance when the country post
was delivered in London, and Cleek, rocketing up in one sweep from the
Pit to the Gateway, stood laughing huskily with a letter from Ailsa in
his hand.

He ripped off the envelope and read it greedily.

"Dear Friend," she wrote, "I cannot imagine what you must think of my
silence; but whatsoever you do think cannot be half so terrible as the
actual cause of it. I have been in close touch with misery and death,
with things so appalling that heart and mind have had room to hold
nothing else. Indeed, I am still so horribly nervous and upset that I
scarcely know how to think coherently much less write. I can only
remember that you once said that if ever I needed your help I was to
ask; and oh, Mr. Cleek, I need it very very much indeed now. Not for
myself--let me find time to add that--but for a dear, dear friend--the
friend I have so often written about: Captain Morford--who is involved
in an affair of the most distressing and mysterious character and whose
only hope lies, I feel, in you. Will you come to the rescue, for my
sake? That is what I am asking. Let me say, however, that there is no
possibility of a reward, for the captain is in no position to offer one;
but I seem to feel that that will not weigh with you. Neither can I ask
you to call at the house, for, as I have already told you, Lady Chepstow
does not care for the Captain and under those circumstances it would be
embarrassing to ask him there to meet you. So then, if no other case
intervenes, and you really _can_ grant me this great favour, will you be
in the neighbourhood of the lich-gate of Lyntonhurst Old Church at nine
o'clock in the morning of Thursday, you will win the everlasting
gratitude of, Your sincere friend--AILSA LORNE."

Would he be there? He laughed aloud as he put the question to himself. A
Bradshaw was on his table. He caught it up, found that there was a train
that could be caught in thirty-five minutes' time, and clapped on his
hat and--caught it.

That night he slept at the inn of the Three Desires--which, as you may
possibly know, lies but a gunshot beyond the boundary wall of the glebe
of Lyntonhurst Old Church--slept with an alarm clock at his head and
every servant at the inn from the boots to the barmaid tipped a shilling
to see that he did not oversleep himself.

He was up before any of them, however--up and out into the pearl-dusk of
the morning before ever the alarm-clock shrilled its first note, or the
sun's sheen slid lower than the spurs of the weather-cock on the spire
of Lyntonhurst Old Church--and twice he had walked past the big gates
and looked up the still avenue to the windows of the huge house whose
roof covered her before Lyntonhurst Old Church spoke up through the
dawn-hush and told the parish it was half-past four o'clock.

By five, he had found a pool cupped in the beech woods with mallows and
marsh marigolds and a screen of green things all round it and a tent of
blue sky over the sun-touched tree tops; and had stripped and splashed
into it and set all the birds to flight with the harsher song of human
things; by seven he was back at the Three Desires; by eight he had
shaved and changed and breakfasted and was out again in the fields and
the leafy lanes, and by nine he was at the lich-gate of the church.




CHAPTER XXXI


She was there already; sitting far back at the end of one of the narrow
wooden side benches with the shadow of the gate's moss-grown roof and of
the big cypress above it partly screening her, her shrinking position
evincing a desire to escape general observation as clearly as her pale
face and nervously drumming hand betrayed a state of extreme agitation.

She rose as Cleek lifted the latch and came in, and advanced to meet him
with both hands outstretched in greeting and a rich colour staining all
her face.

"I knew that you would come--I was as certain of it as I am now this
minute," she said with a little embarrassed laugh, then dropped her eyes
and said no more, for he had taken those two hands in his and was
holding them tightly and looking at her with an expression that was half
a reproach and half a caress.

"I am glad you did not doubt," he said, with an odd, wistful little
smile. "It is good to know one's friends have faith in one, Miss Lorne.
I had almost come to believe that you had forgotten me."

"Because I did not write? Oh, but I could not--indeed I could not. I
have been spending days and nights in a house of mourning--Lady Chepstow
gave me leave of absence; and my heart was so full I did not write even
to her. I have been trying to soothe and to comfort a distracted girl, a
half-crazed old man, a bereft and horribly smitten family. I have been
doing all in my power to put hope and courage into the heart of a
despairing and most unhappy lover."

"Meaning Captain Morford?"

"Yes. He has been almost beside himself. And since this last blow
fell.... Oh, I had been so sure that it would not, that between us all
we would manage to avert it; yet in spite of everything it did fall--it
did!--and if I live to be a hundred I shall never forget it."

"Calm yourself, Miss Lorne. You are shaking like a leaf. Try to tell me
plainly what it is that has happened; what the danger is that threatens
this--er--Captain Morford."

"Oh, nothing threatens _him_, personally," she replied. "He says he could
stand it better if it were only that; and I believe him--I truly do. The
thing that nearly drives him out of his mind is the thought that one day
she--the girl he loves--the girl he is to marry--the girl for whose dear
sake he stands ready to give up so much--the thought that one day _her_
turn will come, that one day she, too, will be stricken down as mother
and brothers have been is almost driving him frantic."

"Mother and brothers?--_brothers_?" Cleek looked up sharply, and there
was a curious break in his voice, a yet more curious brightening of his
eyes. "Miss Lorne, am I to understand that this Captain Morford is
engaged to a girl who has _brothers_?"

"Yes. That is--no. She has 'brothers' no longer. There is only one left
living now, Mr. Cleek, only one. Ah, think of it! of that whole family
of six persons, but three are left: Miriam, Flora, and Ronald."

"Miriam, Flora, and ... Miss Lorne, will you tell me please the name of
the lady to whom Captain Morford is engaged?"

"Why Miriam Comstock, of course--did I forget to mention it?"

"I think so," said Cleek; and shook out a little jerky laugh, and stood
looking at her foolishly; not quite knowing what to do with his feet and
hands. But suddenly--"Oh come, let's have the case--let's have it at
once," he broke out impetuously. "Tell me what it is, what I'm to do for
this Captain Morford, and I'll do it if mortal man can."

"And no mortal man can if you cannot--I've faith enough in you for
that," she began, then stopped short and sucked in her breath, and crept
back to the extreme end of the lich-gate and stood shaking and very
pale. Someone had come suddenly round the angle of the church and was
moving up the road that ran past the gate.

"Please--no--let me get away as quickly as possible," she said in a
swift whisper as Cleek, startled by the change in her, made an eager
step forward. "It is known that I have been with them--the
Comstocks--and it is all so mysterious and awful. ... Oh, who can tell
whose hand it may be? who may be spying? or what? It is best that I
should give no hint that assistance has been asked for; best that nobody
should see me talking with _you_--Mr. Narkom says that it is."

"Mr. Narkom?"

"Yes. He was in the neighbourhood accidentally. He called last night. I
told him and he was glad that I had sent for you. He is over there, on
the other side of the churchyard. Oh, please will you go to him? Captain
Morford is within easy call and has agreed to come when he is wanted. Do
go, do go quickly, Mr. Cleek. There's someone coming up the road and I
am horribly frightened."

"But why? It is merely a farm labourer," said Cleek, glancing through
the open side of the lich-gate and down the road. "You can see that for
yourself."

"Yes, but--who knows? who can tell? There is no clue to the actual
person and he is so cunning, so crafty--Oh, please, will you go?
Afterward, if you like, we can meet here again. To-day I am too
frightened to stay."

He saw that she was in a state of extreme nervous terror; that it would
be cruel to subject her to any further suffering, and without one more
word, walked past her into the Churchyard and made his way over the
green ridge that rose immediately behind the building and down the slope
beyond until he came to the extreme other side. And there in the shade
of a thickly grown spinney, he found Mr. Marverick Narkom sitting with
his back against a beech-tree smoking a nerve-soothing cigar and
expectantly awaiting him.

"My dear fellow, I never was so glad," he said, tossing away his smoke
and jumping up as Cleek appeared. "Happy coincidence my motoring down
here--eh, what? Wife in these parts visiting. Rum, my turning up just
after Miss Lorne had written you and at a time when we both are needed,
wasn't it?"

"Very," said Cleek, pulling out a cigarette and stretching himself full
length upon the ground. "Would as soon have expected to run foul of a
specimen of the Great Auk endeavouring to rear a family in the
neighbourhood of Trafalgar Square. Well, what's it now, Mr. Narkom?--I'm
told you know the details. A match please, if you have one. Thanks very
much. Now then let's have the facts. What sort of a case is it?"

"The knottiest in all my experience, the strangest that even you have
ever handled," replied the Superintendent, impressively. "It's a
murder--three murders, in fact, with a possible fourth and a fifth in
the near future if the diabolical rascal who is at the bottom of it
isn't pulled up sharp and his amazing _modus operandi_ discovered.

"The case will interest you, my dear chap; it is so startlingly original
in its methods of procedure, so complex, so weird, and so appallingly
mysterious. Conceive if you can, my dear fellow, an individual so
supernaturally cunning that he not only kills without a trace, but kills
in the presence of watchers--kills whilst the victim is in the very arms
of those watchers! And yet escapes, unseen, unknown, without a clue to
tell when, where, or how he entered the room or left it; when, where, or
how he struck the blow, or why; yet did strike it, despite the sleepless
vigil of a man who not only sat up all night with the victim, but held
him in his arms to be sure that nobody could get at him; nobody so much
as approach him without his guardian's knowledge!"

Cleek twitched round sharply and sat up, leaning upon his elbow and
looking at Narkom as though he doubted his sanity.

"Let me have that again!" he said in sharp, crisp tones. "A man killed
whilst another man held him--held him in his arms--and watched over him,
and yet the other man saw nothing of the murderer? Is that what you
said?"

"That's it, precisely. Only I must tell you that, in the instance when
the victim was held in the arms of the person watching him, it was not a
man that was killed, but a boy. There had been a man killed, however,
four weeks previously in the same house, in the same mysterious manner,
and by the same unknown agency. A month earlier a woman, too, had been
done to death there in the same way. The man was the brother of that
boy, and the woman was the mother of both."

Cleek moved so quickly that he might fairly have been said to flash
from a sitting to a standing position, and then began to feel round in
his pockets for his cigarette case with a nervous sort of haste, which
Narkom knew and understood.

"Ah," he said, in a tone of satisfaction, "I thought the case would
interest you. You've been down in the dumps lately and needed something
to buck you up a bit. I told Captain Morford that this would be sure to
do it. Heard of him, haven't you? Extremely nice chap. Home on leave
from Bombay. Only recently got his captaincy. Grandson and heir to that
fine old snob, Sir Gilbert Morford, who's known everywhere as 'The
Titled Teapot.' You know, 'Morford & Morford's Unrivalled Tea.' Knighted
for something or other--the Lord knows what or why--and puts on more
side over his tin-plate title than Royalty itself. The Captain is a
decent sort, however. He'll give you the full particulars of this
astounding case. Wait a bit. I'll call him"--pausing a moment to put the
first two fingers of each hand into his mouth and blow out a shrill,
ear-splitting whistle. "That'll fetch him! He'll be here before you can
say Jack Robinson!"

He wasn't, of course; but you couldn't have said it half a hundred times
before he was; or, at least, before Cleek, startled by a rustling of the
boughs, glanced round and saw a tall, fairish young man who had no more
the appearance of a soldier than a currant has of a gooseberry. He
looked more like a bank clerk than anything else that Cleek could think
of at the minute, and a none too prepossessing bank clerk at that, for
Nature had not been any too lavish of her gifts as regards personal
attractiveness, seeming to prefer to make up for her miserliness in the
bestowal of good looks by an absolute prodigality in the gifts of
ears--ears as big as an oyster-shell and so prominent that they seemed
even larger than they were, and that is saying a great deal.

Still, unprepossessing as the man was, there was a certain charm of
manner about him and a certain attractiveness in his voice Cleek
discovered when he was introduced to him and found himself being "sized
up," so to speak, by a pair of keen grey eyes.

"Now let us have the details of the case, if you please, Captain," said
Cleek, coming to the point of the interview with as little beating about
the bush as possible. "Mr. Narkom has given me a vague idea of the
nature of it, but I want something more than that, of course. I am told
that three persons in one family have been done to death in a most
mysterious manner, and without any clue to the assassin or his motive;
indeed that the hand which strikes strikes even in the presence of
others, yet remains unknown and invisible. Frankly, I never heard of but
one instance which at all resembles this or--No, Mr. Narkom, it is
nothing that ever came your way, no affair that has happened since you
and I first met, sir. It was a long time ago--eight or ten years, to be
exact--and a good many miles from England. The cases were somewhat
similar, judging from the scanty outline you have given me, and--What's
that? No, the criminal was never apprehended. He got away, and his
methods were never generally known. Even if they had been, they were not
those which any desperado might have emulated, any tyro practised. They
required a certain knowledge of anatomy, chemical action--even surgery.
I don't believe that ten people in the world knew about the thing at
that time. I stumbled upon what I believed was the solution of the
mystery whilst I was taking a course of chemistry for--well, for the
purpose of demonstrating the possibility of manufacturing precious
stones of a size and weight to make them a profitable--er--speculation.
The science in medicine was not so advanced in those days as it is now,
and when I ventured to suggest to certain doctors what I believed to
have been the cause of the mysterious deaths and the _modus operandi_ of
the murderer, I simply got laughed at for my pains. I felt pretty
certain of my facts, however, and pretty certain of the man who was
guilty. Pardon? No, not alive now; that fellow had his brains blown out
in a bar-room brawl before I left New Zealand."

"New Zealand?" struck in Captain Morford agitatedly. "I say, that's a
rum go, isn't it, Mr. Narkom. New Zealand is where the Comstocks come
from--or, rather, the father and mother did."

"By Jove! Cleek, that looks suspicious, old chap," chimed in Narkom.
"Don't think, do you, that there can possibly be any connection between
the two cases? In other words, that that fellow you suspected in New
Zealand didn't really die after all?"

"Shortly, the chemist? Not a doubt about his death, Mr. Narkom. I was in
the bar-room when he was killed. Three bullets went through his head,
and he was as dead as Napoleon Bonaparte by the time he struck the
floor. The methods may be the same, but not the man--there is not the
ghost of possibility of there being any connection between the two. But
let us give the Captain a chance to explain the case. When, where, and
how did these mysterious murders begin, Captain, if you please?"

"At Lilac Lodge, over Windsor way," replied the Captain, trying to
answer all three questions at once. "They started about a week after the
Comstocks went to live there. And the thing was so appalling, the place
seemed so certainly under a curse, that although he had paid a good
round sum for it, and had spent a pot of money having the house
decorated and the garden laid out just as Miriam and her mother fancied
it--Miriam is Miss Comstock, my fiancee, Mr. Cleek--nothing would induce
Mr. Harmstead to stop in it another hour after the second murder
occurred."

"Mr. Harmstead! Who is Mr. Harmstead, Captain?"

"The late Mrs. Comstock's bachelor uncle--a very rich old chap, who was
once a sheep-farmer in New Zealand, and afterwards in Australia. Mrs.
Comstock hadn't seen him since she was a very little girl until he came
to England some few months ago to settle down and to take care of her
children and her."

"How did it happen that she hadn't seen him in all that time? I take it
there must have been some good reason, Captain?"

"Yes, rather. You see it was like this: The Harmsteads--Mrs. Comstock
was a Harmstead by birth, and Uncle Phil was her father's only
brother--the Harmsteads had never been well to-do as a family: indeed
none of them but dear old Uncle Phil ever had a hundred pounds they
could call their own, so when Miss Harmstead's father died, which was
about eight months after his brother left New Zealand and went to
Australia, she married a young joiner and cabinet-maker, George
Comstock, to whom she had long been engaged, and a few weeks later,
fancying there would be a better chance for advancement in his trade in
England than out there, Mr. Comstock sold out what few belongings he had
in the world and brought his wife over here."

"Oh, I see. Then of course she had no opportunity of seeing her uncle
until he came here?"

"No, not a ghost of one. She corresponded with him for a time,
however--wrote him after the first child was born--and christened
'Philip' in honour of him. In those days it used to take six months to
get a letter to Australia, and another six to get word back, so the baby
was more than a year old when Uncle Phil wrote that if he didn't marry
in the meantime and have a son of his own--which was very unlikely--he
would make young Phil his heir and come out after him, too, one of these
fine days."

"One moment. Was the person you allude to as 'Young Phil' one of the
sons that was murdered?"

"Yes. He was the first victim, poor, chap!"

"Oh, I see!" said Cleek. "I see! So there is money in the background,
eh? Well go on. What next? Hear any more from Uncle Phil after that?"

"Oh, yes--for a long time. Miriam and Flora were born, and word of their
arrival in the world was sent out to him before the final letter for
years and years reached them. In that letter he wrote that he was doing
better and better every year, and getting so rich that he didn't have
time to do anything but just stop where he was and 'gather in the
shekels.' There'd be enough for all when he did come, however, and he
was altering his will so that in case anything should happen to young
Phil--'which God forbid,' he wrote--the girls would come next, and so on
to all the heirs of his niece. After that letter years went by, and
never another one. They, thinking that he had married after all--for in
his last letter he had spoken of a young widow who had lately been
engaged to fill the post of housekeeper at his ranch--gave up all hope
when after three times writing no reply came, and finally desisted
entirely. He says, however, that it was just the other way about. That
he did write--wrote six or seven times--but could get no reply; and as
he afterwards found the housekeeper in question a designing and
deceitful person, and shipped her off about her business, he makes no
doubt that she received and destroyed Mrs. Comstock's letter to him and
burnt his to her, hoping, no doubt, to inveigle him into marrying her."

"Quite likely, if she were a designing woman," commented Cleek. "But go
on, please. What next?"

"Oh, years of hardship, during which Mr. Comstock died and his widow had
to earn their own living unaided. Young Phil got a post as bookkeeper,
Flora taught music and painting, Mrs. Comstock did needlework, and
Miriam became a governess in the family of a distant connection of my
grandfather, Sir Gilbert Morford. That's where and how I met her, Mr.
Cleek, and--Well, that's another story!" his cheeks reddening and a
flash of fire coming into his eyes. "My grandfather says he will 'chuck
me out neck and crop' if I marry her; but it does not matter--I will!"

"Yes, you will--if the cut of that chin stands for anything," commented
Cleek. "Well, to get on: the Comstocks were down in the deeps, and no
hope of hearing any more from Australia and Uncle Phil, eh? What next?"

"Why, all of a sudden he dropped in on them, bless his bully old
heart!--and then good-bye to hard times and any more struggling for them.
He'd been in England searching for them for seven months before he found
them; but when he did find them there was a time! Inside of ten hours,
the whole world was changed for them. Made the boys and the girls give
up their positions and come home to live with him and their mother,
poured money out by the handful, bought Lilac Lodge and fitted it up
like a little palace, dressed his niece and her daughters like queens,
and settled down with them to what seemed about to be a life of glorious
and luxurious ease, and in the midst of all this peace and plenty,
brightness and hope, the first blow fell. Mrs. Comstock, going to bed at
night in perfect health, was found in the morning stone-dead! Of
course, as no doctor could give a death certificate when none had been
in attendance upon her, the Law stepped in, the coroner held an inquest,
an autopsy was decided upon, and the result of it was a deeper and more
amazing mystery than ever. She had died--but from what? Every organ was
found to be in a thoroughly healthy condition. The heart was sound, the
lungs betrayed no sign of an anesthetic, the blood and kidneys not the
faintest trace of poison--everything about her was perfectly normal. She
had not died through drugs, she had not died through strangulation,
suffocation, electrical shock, or failure of the heart. She had not been
stabbed, she had not been shot, she had not succumbed to any mortal
disease--yet there she was, stone-dead, slain by something which no one
could trace and for which Science could find no name."

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