CHAPTER XXVIII
SIR CHARLES DYKE'S JOURNEY
The streets were comparatively deserted as they drove quickly upWhitehall and crossed the south side of Trafalgar Square. It is a commonbelief, even among Londoners themselves, that the traffic is dense inthe main thoroughfares at all hours of the night until twelve o'clockhas long past.
But to the experienced eye there is a marked hiatus between half-pastnine and eleven o'clock. At such a time Charing Cross is negotiable,Piccadilly Circus loses much of its terror, and a hansom may turn out ofRegent Street into Oxford Street without the fare being impelled toclutch convulsively at the brass window-slide in a make-believe effortto save the vehicle from being crushed like a walnut shell between twoheavy 'buses.
Such considerations did not appeal to the barrister and his companion onthis occasion.
For some inexplicable cause they both felt that they were in a desperatehurry.
A momentary stoppage at the turn into Orchard Street caused each man toswear, quite unconsciously. Now that the supreme moment in this mostpainful investigation was at hand they resented the slightest delay.Though they were barely fifteen minutes in the cab, it seemed an hourbefore they alighted at Wensley House, Portman Square.
In response to an imperative ring a footman appeared. Instead ofanswering the barrister's question as to whether Sir Charles was at homeor not, he said: "You are Mr. Bruce, sir, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Sir Charles is at home, but he retired to his room before dinner. He isnot well, and he may have gone to bed, but he said that if you came youwere to be admitted. I will ask Mr. Thompson."
"Better send Thompson to me," said Bruce decisively; and in a minute theold butler stood before him.
"I hear that Sir Charles has retired for the night," said Claude.
Thompson had caught sight of the detective standing on the steps. A fewhours earlier he had himself told him that the baronet was out of town.It was an awkward dilemma, and he coughed doubtingly while he racked hisbrains for a judicious answer.
But Bruce grasped his difficulty. "It is all right, Thompson. Mr. Whitequite understands the position. Do you think Sir Charles is in bed?"
"I will go and see, sir. He was very anxious that you should be sentupstairs if you called. But that was when he was in the library."
Bruce and the detective entered the hall, the butler closed the doorbehind them, and then solemnly ascended the stairs to Sir Charles Dyke'sbedroom, which was situated on the first floor along a corridor towardsthe back of the house.
They distinctly heard the polite knock at the door and Thompson's query,"Are you asleep, Sir Charles?"
After a pause, there was another knock, and the same question in aslightly louder key.
Then the butler returned, saying as he came down the stairs:
"Sir Charles seems to be sound asleep, sir."
Bruce and the detective exchanged glances. The barrister wasdisappointed, almost perturbed, but he said:
"In that case we will not disturb him. Sir Charles does not often retireso early."
"No, sir. I have never known him to go to his room so early before. Hetold me not to serve dinner, as he wasn't well. He would not let me getanything for him. He just took some wine, and I have not seen himsince."
"Since when?"
"About 7.30, sir."
Bruce turned to depart, but Thompson, with the privilege of an oldservant when talking to one whom he knew to be on familiar terms withhis master, whispered:
"That there blessed maid turned up again this afternoon, sir."
The barrister started violently.
"Not Jane Harding, surely?"
"Yes, sir. She came at four o'clock and asked for Sir Charles, as boldas brass."
"Did he see her?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"Do you hear that, White?"
The detective nodded.
"She must have reached the house about half-an-hour before me," he said,addressing the butler.
"That's about right, sir."
"But I understood," went on Bruce, "that Sir Charles was not at home toordinary callers?"
Thompson shuffled about somewhat uneasily. He wished now he had held histongue.
"I had my orders, sir," he murmured, in extenuation of his apparentlydiverse actions.
"Tell me what your orders were," persisted Bruce.
The man hesitated, not wishful to offend his master's friend, but toowell trained to reveal the explicit instructions given him by SirCharles Dyke.
"Do not be afraid. I will explain everything to Sir Charles personally.We cannot best judge what to do--whether to wake him or not--unless weknow the position," went on the barrister.
Thus absolved from blame, Thompson took from his waistcoat pocket afolded sheet of notepaper.
"I don't pretend to understand the reason, sir," he said, "but SirCharles wrote this himself, and told me to be careful to obey himexactly."
The barrister eagerly grasped the note and read:
"If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer should call, admit any of them immediately. To all others say that I have left town--some days ago, should they ask you.
"C. D."
White, round-eyed and bullet-headed, gazed with goggle orbs over Bruce'sshoulder.
"That settles it, Mr. Bruce," he said. "We _must_ see him."
"Thompson," said Bruce, "does Sir Charles usually lock his door?"
"Never, sir."
"Very well. Knock again, and then try the door. We will go with you."
Something in the barrister's manner rather than his words sent a coldshiver down the old butler's spine.
"I do hope there's nothing wrong, sir," he commenced; but Bruce wasalready half-way up the stairs. Both he and White guessed what hadhappened. They knew that poor Thompson's repeated summons at the bedroomdoor would remain forever unanswered--that the unfortunate baronet hadquitted the dread certainties of this world for the uncertainties of thenext.
They were not mistaken. A few minutes later they found him listlesslydrooping over the side of the chair in which he was seated, partlyundressed, and seemingly overcome at the moment when he was about totake off his boots.
On a table near him were two bottles, both half-emptied, and an emptywineglass. Each of the bottles bore the label of a well-known chemist.One was endorsed "Sleeping-draught," the other "Poison," and "Chloral."
The three men were pale as the limp, inanimate form in the chair whilethey silently noted these details. Bruce raised the head of his friendin the hope that life might not yet be extinct. But Sir Charles Dyke hadtaken his measures effectually. Though the _rigor mortis_ had not setin, he had evidently been dead some time.
Thompson, quite beside himself with grief, dropped to his knees by hismaster's side.
"Sir Charles!" he wailed. "Sir Charles! For the love of Heaven, speak tous. You can't be dead. Oh, you can't. It ain't fair. You're too young todie. What curse has come upon the house that both should go?"
Bruce leaned over and shook the old butler firmly by the shoulder.
"Thompson," he said impressively, for now that the crisis he feared hadcome and gone, he exercised full control over himself. "Thompson, if youever wished to serve Sir Charles you must do so now by remaining calm.For his sake, help us, and do not create an unnecessary scene."
Governed by the more powerful nature, the affrighted man struggled tohis feet.
"What shall I do?" he whimpered. "Shall I send for a doctor?"
"Yes; say Sir Charles is very ill. Not a word to a soul about what hashappened until we have carefully examined the room."
At that instant Mr. White caught sight of a large and bulky envelope,which had fallen to the floor near the chair on which Sir Charles wasseated.
Picking it up, he found it was addressed, "Claude Bruce, Esq. To bedelivered to him _at once_."
"This will explain matters, I expect," said the detective.
"Whatev
er could have come to my master to do such a thing?" groanedThompson, turning to reach the door.
"Come back," cried Bruce sharply. "Now, look here, Thompson," he wenton, placing both his hands on the butler's shoulders and looking himstraight in the eyes, "it is imperative that you should pull yourselftogether. That sort of remark will never do. Sir Charles has simplytaken an over-dose of chloral accidentally. He has slept badly eversince Lady Dyke's death, you understand, and has been in the habit oftaking sleeping-draughts. Now, before you leave the room tell me exactlywhat has happened, in your own language."
"I can't put it together now, sir, but I won't say anything to anybody.You can trust me for that. Why, I loved him as my own son, I did."
"Yes, I know that well. But remember. An over-dose. An accident. Nothingelse. Do you follow me?"
"Quite, sir. Heaven help us all."
"Very well. Now send for the doctor, without needlessly alarming theother servants."
Bruce placed the envelope in the pocket of his overcoat, saying to thedetective:
"We will examine this later, White. Just now we must do what we can toavoid a scandal. The case between Lady Dyke and her husband will besettled by a higher tribunal than we had counted upon."
"It certainly _looks_ like an accident, Mr. Bruce," was the answer, "butit all depends upon the view the doctor takes. And you know, of course,that I shall have to report the actual facts to my superiors."
"That is obvious. Yet no harm is done at this early stage in taking suchsteps as may finally render undue publicity needless. It may beimpossible; but on the other hand, until we have heard Sir Charles'sversion, contained, I suppose, in this letter to me, it is advisable tosustain the theory of an accidental death."
"Anything I can do to help you will be done," replied the detective.With that they dropped the subject, and more carefully scrutinized theroom.
To all intents and purposes Sir Charles Dyke might, indeed, have broughtabout the catastrophe inadvertently. The sleeping-draught bore theledger number of its prescription, and there is nothing unusual in apatient striving to help the cautious dose ordered by a physician by theaddition of a more powerful nostrum.
His partly dressed state, too, argued that he had taken the fatalmixture at a time when he contemplated retiring to rest forthwith. Afire still burned in the grate. On the mantelpiece--in a position wherethe baronet must see it until the moment when all things faded from hisvision--was a beautiful miniature of his wife.
The detective, with professional nonchalance, soon sat down. There wasnothing to do but await the arrival of the doctor, and, having heard hisreport, go home.
In the quietude of the room, with the strain relaxed, Bruce wasprofoundly moved by the spectacle of his dead friend. Whatever hislogical faculties might argue, he could not regard this man as amurderer. If Lady Dyke met her death at his hand then it must have beenthe result of some terrible mistake--of some momentary outburst ofpassion which never contemplated such a sequel.
Poisons which kill by stupefaction do not distort their victims as incases where violent irritants are used. Sir Charles Dyke seemed to livein a deep sleep, exhausted by toil or pain--sleep the counterfeit ofdeath--while the bright colors and speaking eyes of the miniaturecounterfeited life. Standing between these two--both the mere images ofthe man and the woman he had known so well--the barrister insensiblyfelt that at last they had peace.
It was his first experience of the tremendous change in the relationshipestablished by death. It utterly overpowered him. No mere words couldexpress his emotions. Between him and those that had been was imposedthe impenetrable wall of eternity.
A bustle in the hall beneath aroused him from his grief-stricken stupor,and Mr. White's commonplace tones sounded strange to his ears.
"Here's the doctor."
A well-known physician hastened to the room. Thompson had carefullyfollowed instructions. The doctor was not prepared for the condition ofaffairs that a glance revealed to his practised eye.
"Surely he is not dead?" he cried, looking from the form in the chair tothe two men.
Bruce answered him:
"Yes, for some hours, I fear, but we wanted to avoid spreadingunnecessary rumors until--"
"I understand. My poor friend! How came this to happen?"
The skilled practitioner merely lifted one of the dead man's eyelids,and then turned to examine the bottles on the table.
"My own prescription," he said, after tasting the contents of one phial."Ah, this was bad; why did he not consult me?" and he sadly shook hishead as he tasted the remaining liquid in the second.
"What do you make of it?" said Bruce.
He looked the other steadily in the face and the doctor interpreted thecause of his anxiety.
"A clear case of accidental poisoning," he replied. "Sir Charles hasconsulted me several times during the past week on account of hisextreme insomnia. I specifically warned him against overdoing mytreatment. Change of air, exercise, and diet are the true specifics forsleeplessness, especially when induced, as his was, by a morbid state ofmind."
"You mean--"
"That Sir Charles has never recovered from the shock of his wife'sdeath. I did not know of it myself until it was announced recently, andI gathered from him that the manner of her demise was partly unaccountedfor. Altogether, it is a sad business that such a couple should be takenin such a manner."
Mr. White was industriously taking notes the while, and the doctorregarded him with a questioning look.
"This gentleman is in the police," explained Bruce.
"Indeed!"
"Yes. We came here by mere accident. Mr. White and I were engaged in animportant inquiry--the cause of Lady Dyke's disappearance, in fact--andwe hurried here at a late hour to consult with Sir Charles. Hence ourpresence and this discovery."
"How strange!"
"There is no reason now," broke in the detective, "why the body shouldnot be moved?"
Claude shuddered at the phrase. It suggested the inevitable.
"Not in the least. I am quite satisfied as to the cause of death."
The despatch of telegrams and other necessary details kept Bruce busilyemployed until two o'clock. Not until he reached the privacy of his ownlibrary was he able to break the seal of the packet left for him as thefinal act and word of the late Sir Charles Dyke.