Boothby Guy
A Cabinet Secret

CHAPTER VI

The catalogue of woes, which it has been my ill-fortune to be compelled to chronicle, is indeed a long one, but of all the items I have set down, none had had such a terrible effect upon the public mind as the assassination of the Prime Minister. Expressions of genuine sorrow poured forth from every side, and party feeling, for the time being at least, was forgotten. Even the most antagonistic of the Continental journals, though perhaps rejoicing in their hearts at Great Britain's misfortune, admitted that she was passing through a time of severe trial, and while they prophesied our ultimate downfall, showed very plainly their admiration for our fortitude. Indeed the self-control of the nation at this particular period was a little short of marvellous. The war was draining her of her best blood; those at the helm of the Ship of State were being one by one mysteriously done away with; she had been the victim of a vast scheme of false intelligence, her great arsenal had been blown up and the supply of munitions of war thereby seriously imperilled at the most critical juncture; a large proportion of her army were prisoners in the enemy's hands, and three other portions were locked up in beleaguered towns. Yet, with it all, she continued the struggle with as much determination as she had first entered upon it. The bull-dog tenacity permeated all classes; it was shared by the peer, the country squire, the small farmer, the tradesman and the artizan; it was voiced by the Prime Minister, and echoed by the costermonger. Whatever it might cost, England was resolved to win in the end. That end, however, was still far off, and much blood would have to be spilt and a large amount of money spent before we should be able to call ourselves the victors.

Meanwhile, troops were still pouring out of England, and more were hastening to her assistance from Australia and Canada. Even in these loyal portions of the Empire, however, strenuous efforts were being made by some mysterious power, upon which it was impossible to lay hands, to undermine their affection for the mother country. Treasonable pamphlets were distributed broadcast; an infernal machine was discovered on board a troop-ship on the point of sailing from a Queensland port; another was discovered on board a transport in Sydney harbour; while a third vessel, owing to the wilful carelessness of the captain, who was afterwards arraigned on a charge of High Treason, but was acquitted for want of sufficient evidence, was put ashore, with all her troops on board, on the coast of South Australia. It was in Canada, however, that the trouble was worst. Its proximity to the United States favoured the Fenian propaganda, and, despite the loyalty of the French Canadians – of which no one felt a doubt – an attempt was made to induce them to swerve in their allegiance to the Empire. Such was the state of affairs when Lord Litford's successor took up the reins of office.

It must not be thought that, because they achieved no result, the police were lax in their attempts to discover the perpetrator or perpetrators of that cruel crime. To employ again that well-worn phrase, not a stone was left unturned to arrive at an understanding of the manner in which the deed was done. One thing was quite certain, it had been carefully planned; but then so had the disappearance of Woller and the Colonial Secretary. The destruction of Woolwich Arsenal was a work of devilish ingenuity; while the blowing up of the transport Sultan of Sedang at Madeira was arranged to a nicety. In the case of the Prime Minister, the servants and members of his household were interrogated, but were all dismissed from the case as being beyond suspicion. They unitedly declared that, to the best of their belief, no stranger had entered the house up to the time of their going to bed, nor had any suspicious person been seen in its vicinity during the day. Moreover, the police on duty in the Square had been instructed to keep a watchful eye upon the house, and they were able to affirm that they had seen no one loitering near the Prime Minister's residence from the earliest hours of morning until the time that the news of the tragedy was made known. Yet the fact remained that some one had entered the house, and had been able to make his way unobserved to the library, where the crime was committed, and afterwards to get out again undiscovered. Needless to say, a large reward was offered by the authorities for any information which would lead to a conviction; but though a multitude of communications were received in answer to it, from all sorts and conditions of people, not one was of any value.

On the Friday following the assassination of the Prime Minister, and the day before the funeral, according to custom I took a constitutional in the Park before going down to my office. As a matter of fact I was somewhat earlier than usual, and for that reason, with the exception of a few riders in the Row, and the customary bicycle contingent, the Park was comparatively empty. I entered by the Grosvenor Gate, walked as far as the Barracks, and then retraced my steps towards Piccadilly, passing along the north bank of the Serpentine. I had several difficult problems to work out that day, and one of them was occupying my mind as I walked beside the lake. Suddenly a voice I recognised fell upon my ear, and I looked up to find, seated a few paces distant from me, no less a person than the Countess de Venetza. She was engaged in an earnest conversation with a dark, foreign-looking individual, an Italian, without the shadow of a doubt. The Countess did not see me at first, but, as soon as she did, she said something hurriedly to the man beside her and came forward to greet me.

"You are out early, Sir George," she began. "The Park is delightful at this time of the day, is it not?"

"Delightful indeed," I replied. "I did not expect, however, to have the pleasure of meeting you in it."

"I walk here almost every morning," she answered. And then, after we had uttered a few commonplaces, she continued: "And now, while I think of it, let me apologize to you for my rudeness in having omitted to thank you again for the great service you rendered us on the occasion of the burglary at Wiltshire House. Had it not been for your prompt action, we should have been more seriously robbed, while it is quite possible that something worse might have happened."

"You say that you might have been 'more seriously robbed'?" I returned. "Am I to understand, then, that the man was found in the house after all?"

"He was not found in the house," she replied. "But we have discovered by what means he effected his escape from it. While Conrad and the police were looking for him downstairs, he was hidden in a dressing-room adjoining that which used to be my father's apartment, at the back of the house. When they ascended the stairs he opened the window and lowered himself down to a roof below. Then he must have made his way through the mews at the back and reached safety again. In proof of this a small silver ornament, one of the few missing things, was found next day in the guttering of the roof."

If this were so, then the detective's statement to the effect that the man who had entered the house was none other than young Reiffenburg was altogether beyond the mark, and would only serve to show the folly of judging by purely circumstantial evidence.

"In that case, who do you suspect of having admitted him to the house?" I enquired, for this was a point of considerable importance.

"An under-footman," she replied, "who has since been discharged. His behaviour struck Conrad as being rather suspicious at the time, but it was not until other things were found to be missing, that we derived a real knowledge of his character."

"I am rejoiced to know that the mystery has been solved," I said. "But pray forgive me, Countess; see, I have driven your friend away."

She gave a start before she replied.

"He is not my friend," she answered somewhat hurriedly, "merely a begging compatriot. The poor fellow is a teacher of music, who puts forward his art as a claim upon my bounty. He is anxious to return to Italy, but cannot do so for want of means."

Now there was one point about this speech that I did not understand. As I had approached the seat, I distinctly heard the foreigner say authoritatively in Italian: "It is the order of the Council and must be obeyed." Of course the words might have meant anything, but the tone was certainly one of authority. It struck me as being peculiar that an impoverished music-master, soliciting the Countess's assistance, should address her in such a tone. Why I should have bothered myself with the fellow's affairs I cannot say. The impulse, however, was irresistible.

"To be stranded in a strange country is a hard fate," I said. "Since I am also a devotee of his beautiful art, will you not permit me to assist you in your work of benevolence. If you will furnish me with the man's name and address, I will see that he is helped to attain his object."

As I said this I could not help thinking that I detected a frightened look in her face.

"Oh, no, you must not do that," she said hurriedly. "He is a very proud man, and would only accept help from me because I am a compatriot and happen to know something of his family. I feel sure that he would be extremely angry with me if he knew that I had said anything to you upon the subject."

"I am sorry that you will not let me assist him," I said. "I have no desire, however, to hurt his feelings. Forget that I said anything about it."

"Ah! now I have offended you," she continued, with a look of pain upon her face. "Forgive me, I am very thoughtless. Had we been speaking my own Italian it would have been different. Your English is so hard, so unsympathetic."

Her voice was so full of entreaty, her whole demeanour so expressive of sorrow, that I almost repented me of the trick I had endeavoured to play upon her. What did it matter to me whether the man were an old friend, or only the stranger she had represented him to be? I accordingly begged her to say no more upon the subject, assuring her that I was not in the least hurt at her declining my offer. This seemed to soothe her, and presently, when we had walked some little distance beside the water, her cheerfulness returned. She had been amusing herself of late, so she informed me, by working out a sketch for the dinner-party to which she had invited me. It was to be an unique affair of its kind.

"All that remains to be settled is, when shall it be?" she asked. "How would Thursday next suit you?"

"Impossible, I am afraid," I answered. "I have promised to go to Aldershot on Wednesday, to be present next day at an inspection of the men who are to sail on Saturday for the South."

"Then would the Wednesday following suit you?"

"Admirably," I replied. "It would be more convenient for a variety of reasons."

"Then it is settled that we are to dine together on Wednesday week at eight o'clock. You will not forget?"

"Is it likely that I should be guilty of such rudeness?" I asked, and then added, with what was for me unusual gallantry, "I shall count the days that must elapse before the time can arrive."

"I am hopeful of being able to get the Duke of Rotherhithe to meet you," she said. "Do you know that he is in England?"

"I was not aware of it," I answered; "but I am very glad to hear it, nevertheless."

I did not say that one of my reasons for being glad was that I hoped to be able to obtain from him some particulars concerning my fair friend. I remembered the statement she had made during our journey from Paris together, to the effect that she and her father had been yachting with Rotherhithe in the Mediterranean. If they were on such intimate terms it was more than likely that my old friend would know more about her than any one else in our world of fashion would be likely to do.

When we reached Hyde Park Corner we paused for a few moments. I do not think she could ever have looked more beautiful than she did then, certainly never more dangerous.

"I wonder if, after we part, we shall ever meet again?" she said, with what was almost a touch of sadness in her voice.

"Are you, then, thinking of leaving England soon?" I asked in some surprise, for until that moment she had not spoken of terminating her visit.

"I do not think we shall remain very much longer," she replied. "I have duties abroad that are calling for my attention."

"I hope when you go that you will be able to say you have enjoyed your stay with us?" I said.

"I should have," she replied, "had it not been for this dreadful war. But as things are, how could one enjoy oneself?"

Had I known then all that I now know, I should have realized the double meaning contained in her remark. But more of that anon.

At last we bade each other good-bye, and separated, she crossing the Park in the direction of Wiltshire House, while I passed out and made my way over Constitution Hill towards Pall Mall.

On the Wednesday following the event I have just described, I accompanied the Commander-in-Chief and several other members of the Government to Aldershot, to inspect the large body of troops then about to leave for the front. We were to be the guests of Lord Beckingdale during the time we were there, and were to return to London on the Thursday evening after the inspection. We accordingly left Waterloo together, proceeded by train to Farnborough, and then drove to Lord Beckingdale's residence by coach. It was a glorious afternoon, and the change from London to the country was delightful. I commented upon this, whereupon Beckingdale, who is one of my oldest friends, began to rally me on my preference for the Metropolis.

"I thought you would get over it in time," he said with one of his hearty laughs. "Why don't you marry, George, and settle down in the country? You would make an ideal Squire."

"I should be bored to death in a week," I replied. "Besides, who is there that would take pity on me? I am not so young as I was, and I am afraid that I have had my liberty too long to make a good husband."

As I said this the image of the Countess rose before my mind's eye, though why it should have done so at this particular moment is more than I can say. Though I admired her intensely, my admiration went no further. She was a delightful hostess and an exceedingly clever woman, but I should no more have thought of making her Lady Manderville than I should have tried to jump from the Clock Tower of the Houses of Parliament into the river.

At that moment we were descending a steep hill, through a closely-wooded plantation. We were half-way down, when I happened to catch sight of a man standing among the trees, some fifty yards or so from the road. Strange to say, he was watching us through a pair of field-glasses, and was evidently much interested in our movements, though it looked as if he himself had no desire to attract attention. Then he disappeared amongst the brushwood, and, for the time being, I thought no more about him.

On reaching the Park, we were most cordially received by Lady Beckingdale, and partook of afternoon tea with her in the hall, which is one of the most charming features of that beautiful house. A stroll round the grounds, and a visit to the stud farm afterwards, wiled away the time until the dressing gong sounded. Then we returned to the house, and made our way to our various rooms. Before commencing to dress I went to the windows and looked out. The gardens on that particular side of the house slope upwards until they reach the small paddock which separates them from the woods behind. Now I have a fairly sharp eye, and a faculty of noticing, which sometimes stands me in good stead. On this particular occasion I was watching the evening light upon the trees in the plantation opposite, when suddenly I saw a brace of pheasants fly quickly out, followed by half-a-dozen more. They had evidently been disturbed by some human being.

"Just give me my glasses for a moment, Williams," I said, and in a trice he had handed me the pair I had brought down for the inspection next day. Seating myself in the window, I brought them to bear upon the spot where the birds had flown out. For a moment I could see nothing. Then I thought I could detect what looked like a grey trouser-leg, peeping out beneath the branches of a fir. I called Williams to my side and handed him the glasses, directing him where to look.

"What do you make of it?" I asked.

"It looks as if there's somebody hiding there, sir," he answered. "Yes, sir, I'm sure of it," he added a few moments later. "If you will look now, you will be able to see him creeping away."

I took the glasses again and once more turned them upon the spot. What he had said was quite correct; the figure of a man dressed in a grey suit could just be distinguished disappearing into the deeper part of the wood. It immediately occurred to me that the man I had seen that afternoon, when we were on our way to the Park, had also been dressed in grey. Could this be the individual who had watched us then? And if so, what were his reasons for behaving in this mysterious fashion? I did not like the idea of it, remembering as I did the dangerous condition of the times, and the manner in which so many of my friends had been attacked.

"Keep what you have seen to yourself, Williams," I said; "I will speak to Lord Beckingdale myself about it when I go downstairs. If the man is a poacher, or has any dishonest reason for being there, he will know what to do in the matter."

Williams promised to obey my instructions, and when I had dressed, I made my way downstairs to find our host and the Commander-in-Chief standing before the fire-place, in which a cheerful fire was burning.

"By the way, Beckingdale," I said, when I had answered the remark one of them made to me as I descended the stairs, "who is the man in your plantation with the grey suit and field-glasses."

"Man with grey suit and field-glasses?" he repeated, with a look of surprise on his face. "I have many friends who are the happy possessors of both articles. But what makes you ask me such a question at the present moment?"

"For a good and sufficient reason," I replied, and went on to tell him of the two occasions that afternoon upon which I had seen the person in question.

"What a singular thing!" he said, when I had finished. "I wonder who the fellow is, and what his idea can be in watching the house? As you are aware, the place is being patrolled by police to-night, and I think I had better inform them of the circumstance. After the terrible events of the last few weeks it does not do to run any risks. Can you describe the man?"

I furnished him with as accurate a description of the fellow as it was possible to give, whereupon he departed in search of the officer in command of the police. When he returned we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and then went in to dinner. It was not until the ladies had withdrawn and cigarettes were lighted, that the subject of the grey man was introduced. A small piece of paper was handed to our host by the butler. He glanced at it and then looked across the table to where I sat.

"Here is the police report," he said. "It informs me that they have scoured all the plantations round the estate with the assistance of the keepers, but have not been successful in discovering the man you saw. No doubt he was some prying celebrity hunter, who has taken himself off, to Aldershot probably, where he will have no opportunity of seeing you to-morrow."

This brought a round of questions from the others, who, with the exception of the Commander-in-Chief, had not heard of the incident. When each man had settled the question to his own satisfaction, the subject was dropped, and we rose from the table to return to the drawing-room. Here we indulged in music and conversation until half-past ten o'clock, smoked in the billiard-room for another hour, and at half-past eleven bade each other good-night in the gallery that ran round the hall, and retired to our respective rooms. By this time the character of the night had changed. A boisterous wind had risen, and heavy rain was driven tempestuously against the window-panes. It certainly did not look very promising for the inspection on the morrow. I inquired from Williams whether anything further had been heard concerning the man we had both seen in the plantation opposite the house.

"Not that I know of, sir," he replied; "I did not hear it mentioned. But there's one thing that's been on my mind ever since you spoke to me about it to-night, and I must own that it puzzles me. I don't say it's right, of course; at the same time I've got a feeling that I'm not so very far wrong."

"What is it?" I enquired with interest, for Williams is a staid and circumspect individual, and is not in the habit of committing himself to a rash statement.

"It is just this, sir. When you sent me down to the Commander-in-Chief's residence with that note this morning, there was a man walking on the opposite side of the street who, to the best of my belief, was dressed just as this man was – that is to say, in a grey suit and a soft black hat."

"There is nothing very remarkable in that," I answered, a little disappointed. "You would probably find a dozen men dressed in a similar fashion in a short walk through the West End."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought the coincidence worth mentioning," Williams replied in rather a crestfallen way. Then he bade me good-night and I retired to rest.

That night I slept like a top, and did not wake until Williams entered my room next morning. He informed me that the rain had passed off, that it was a fine day, and then busied himself with preparations for my toilet. These were barely accomplished, and I was in the act of commencing to shave, when the handle of my door turned, and Beckingdale, almost beside himself with excitement, entered the room.

"Great Heavens! Manderville," he cried in a voice which, had I not seen him, I should scarcely have recognised as his, "a most awful thing has happened. The Commander-in-Chief is missing."

"Missing?" I echoed, as if I scarcely understood the meaning of the word. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that his valet came to my man, Walters, about half an hour ago, and told him that he had knocked repeatedly on the door of his master's bedroom and could get no reply. My man came to me with the story, and when I had tried the door myself with the same result, I gave orders that it should be broken in. You may imagine our feelings when we discovered the room to be empty. The bed had been slept in, it is true, but there was not a trace of the man we wanted. What was more, the windows were shut. The police are now searching in all directions. What on earth shall we do? The inspection is at eleven o'clock, and it is most unlikely that we shall have the good fortune to find him before then."

Terrible as the situation was, I could not help recalling the fact that I had taken part in just such another interview on the morning of Woller's disappearance, when the Commander-in-Chief had asked my advice as to what should be done to find the missing man before that identical hour.

"Help me if you possibly can," cried Beckingdale, who, like myself, was quite overwhelmed by the magnitude of the misfortune. "Though I know I am not to blame, I cannot help reproaching myself for having permitted this to happen in my house. How can it have been managed, and who can have done it?"

I shook my head.

"The same mysterious power that is responsible for Woller's disappearance and for the Prime Minister's death," I said. "But who is there amongst us who can say what that power is. Good Heavens!" I cried, as the consequences rose before me, "the Commander-in-Chief gone! I can scarcely credit it. Surely some one must have heard something? What room is beneath his bedroom?"

"The dining-room, unfortunately," Beckingdale replied, "and as ill luck would have it, the room adjoining it on the right is empty, while M'Innister occupies that on the left. The latter says he heard nothing suspicious, but that's easily accounted for, by reason of his deafness and the storm we had. But what on earth can have become of him? I would give anything to have him before me now. How cheerful he was last night, and how sanguine as to the ultimate end of the war! This will prove another bitter blow to the nation."

"And it has had enough already," I replied. "We had better telegraph to the War Office and Scotland Yard at once."

"I have already done that," he said. "I have also sent a special messenger to the commanding officer down here, informing him of the occurrence, and asking him to send out troops to scour the country in the hope of discovering some trace of the missing man. I do not see what else we can do at the present."

Then a thought struck me. What about the grey man whom Williams declared he had seen on the previous morning near the Commander-in-Chief's residence, whom I had seen watching us through field-glasses, on our way to Beckingdale Park, and whom Williams and I had both seen in the plantation opposite the house when I went up to dress for dinner? I recalled the fact of his presence to Beckingdale.

"I have not forgotten him," he said. "Directly I heard that they could not get into his room, a suspicion of what might be in store for us flashed through my mind, and I said to myself, 'If anything has happened to him, I shall say that Manderville's grey man is mixed up in the business.' As soon as the worst was apparent, I spoke to the police upon the subject, and they have once more made an effort to find him or to hear of him, without success. The grey man is as mysteriously missing as the Commander-in-Chief himself, and as to the part he played in the other's disappearance, it seems to me that we are likely to remain as ignorant as we are of everything else. Now, dress as quickly as you can, there's a good fellow, and come down to my study. We must hold a council together, and see what's to be done."

I did as he desired, and when I was ready I made my way to his study.

When I reached it I found Beckingdale and the one other guest awaiting my coming. The terrible effect that had been produced by the news of the morning was to be seen on their faces. For upwards of an hour we discussed the question in all its bearings, but eager as we were to do all that lay in our power to render assistance to the missing man, we were obliged to confess that we were unable to do anything. By this time wires were pouring in from all parts, and it is quite certain that the powers of the little village telegraph office had never been so severely taxed before. At ten o'clock it was decided, by unanimous consent, that the inspection should be abandoned in the absence of the Commander-in Chief, and accordingly, at half-past ten, we returned to town. It is needless for me to say that it was a miserable journey. Our spirits were as low as it was possible for the spirits of human beings to be. On reaching Waterloo we drove direct to the Foreign Office, where a Cabinet Council had been hastily called together. When it was over I drove home. The streets echoed to the cries of the newsboys: —

"DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!

DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!"

That evening a new sensation was added to the already long list when it was known that the notorious anarchist, Luigi Ferreira, had managed to escape from prison some days before, and was supposed to have crossed the Channel and to be in London. Had I only known then that he was the man I had seen talking so excitedly to the Countess in the Park, a few mornings before, and that at that very moment he was occupying a room at Wiltshire House, as a supposed invalid, how speedily might retribution have descended upon him.

Unfortunately, however, I did not know!