THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 43, 20 February 1926, Page 36

THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY.

BY CARLTON DAWE.

Author of "Desperate Love,' , "Eurj-ale in London." "Vircinla." etc. CHAPTER XXV. How it Happened. With trembling fingers Marjorie opened the envelope and drew forth several sheets of paper, all of -which were written over in Penbury's small peat hand. She saw at a glance that it was no ordinary letter; something indeed very different; something that suggested a matter of infinite importance. It began in this fashion: "This is for you, Marjorie, and for you only. I owe it to you, my dear; something that's been on my mind for a long time. Often I meant to speak of it, Lut" at the last moment my courage always failed mc. Yet I "would have told you before demanding of you that final sacrifice —the giving of your life as well as your love. When you have read through you will be better able to understand my moods, my strange nts of abstraction, the many instances in which I must have seemed cold, indifferent, careless of your affection. Sometimes I wondered if you saw or guessed my secret; often it seemed to mc incredible that the world could not see it in my eyes or < :i my forehead; for surely it was imprint-. .1 there? (Searching my face in the glass . found it; unmistakably it burned in my eyes. And if I could see it. why not others? I think one other did. or does, and I am beginning to fear him. His name is Samuel Burden. So far he has lacked courage to credit his doubts; so monstrous are they that he shrinks before them. Yet 1 have a feeling that fate "will guide him to the appointed end. Hβ hates mc, is suspicious of mc, and with some cause. My handling of this case has not given him satisfaction. How could it? Xo one can be more conscious of my omissions than 1,, or my apparent indifference to, or neglect of, my duty. Prepare for the worst, my dear; prepare to turn with a shudder from him whom you once thought so worthy. It was I who killed Poppy Wilton! If this admission does not blind you, read on. I mean to tell you how it happened; how it all came about. But first, one more admission, if you can bear it. She was my sister Edith— my only sister! Just think, I killed my own sister; and I have lived after it and not gone mad. I killed the sister I worshipped, the child whom I adored, and I have dared to hope that through you I might ultimately find salvation! As though it could be; as though retribution were dead! I said I had not gone mad, yet I doubt if that is true. Perhaps not madness as people understand the term. That would have been a blessing, a mercy. My madness has leen altogether different; something that no one could understand; that I do not understand myself. I hare lived in hell! In dreams she came to mc, moaning pitifully; I saw the fear in her eyes, that last wild look of terror before . . . And how I worshipped her once! Perhaps it was that tremendous love, nearer adoration, which urged mc to the dreadful sin. But I must not ramble in this fashion. I do not solicit pity; I know sympathy is beyond mc. Yet that which makes the weak human sob in the hour of sorrow sustains mc with a faint hope. It is even possible that the most outrageous offence, committed by ourselves, may not seem to us as it does to others, which may be a sort of dipensation of Providence. • The villains I have hunted down and brought to justice! For the first time I seem to understand them. Edith and I (Poppy was her nickname when a child) were the only two children of our parents, she coming about eleven years after I was born. For five years we all lived more or less happily together, and then my mother died. My father, who was a man much addicted to pleasure, had never really cared much for us, nor -do I think we ever cared much for him, with the exception of Poppy, and she was too young to appreciate his character. But I did, and I hated him because he used to make my mother cry. He was a fairly well-to-do stockjobber in those days, and spent his money freely on his own pleasures. Clearly he was not' the man to have the guardianship of children, even his own, and when my aunt, my mother's sister, suggested that she should take charge of us, he readily aeqiiiesced in the arrangement. He was killed in a railway smash two • years later on a journey to the South of France—with a woman who was not his wife. He left us practically , penniless. I will pass over the intervening years. When the war broke out I joined up, and for the next four years saw little of home. Poppy during this time had grown into a beautiful girl, and I adored her; nor could my aunt make mc see that she was a replica of my father in every essential. I simply would not see it. Her tempers, pride, insolence even, were a joy to mc; I. delighted in her wildest extravagance. She had dreams of doing great things for herself. ' Knowing she was pretty, her prettiness became an obsession. With it she was going to win her way in the world; to conquer it. With my gratuity on being demobbed I bought her clothes, trinkets; took her about; gave her a-good tjme. But that soon came to an end, though she seemed to think my purse exhaustless; pouted when I told her that I had come, to the bottom of it and would have to find work. This thought was eminently distasteful. She had become a modern of the moderns, craving for excitement, living only for pleasure. TVhen I joined the police I wanted her to come and keep house for mc, but she laughed at the idea. A brother a policeman! It was not thus she hoped to conquer the world. ■ The next thing I heard was that she had left my aunt's roof and gone on the stage; had joined some touring theatrical company in the provinces. Then I lost sight of her for nearly three years. One night in the course of duty I recognised her in the chorus of a piece at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, and waited at the stage door for her to come out. Together we walked back to her lodgings in Bloomsbury, I did all I could to persuade her to give up this business and live with mc: told her how well I was doing, what hopes ; n? Ut Bhe would not "sten; inshe meant to continue. Incidentally she STftSSR" 4 that Bho did ™" with apprehension ' Was racked

secretly kept an eye on her, and when I knew she was associating with un- j desirables I sent her warning. From time to time I sent her many warnings, all written on official paper, but knowing who they came from she treated' them with contempt. Then certain i other rumours reached mc; I kept watch and knew she was in touch with a gang of cocaine vendors whom I had under supervision. This was the last and greatest horror. If I was to save her ■ from the lowest depths of shame and' degradation something had to be done. | But what? I was distraught with i fears for her; overwhelmed -with the thought of impending calamity. Once | the drug got hold of her there would! be no sort of hope. It meant sinking, sinking to the very depths. The little child whom I had adored, for whom I still felt a singular and poignant affec- j tion ! Something had to be done. 11 could not see my sister descend to the | gutter. For that's what it meant —unless I could find a way to prevent it. Let mc come to that last fatal Sunday. I had determined to make one last appeal to her, and with that end in ; view wrote asking her to see mc. She ignored the letter. I wrot again, with a I like result. Then I decided to act. I j know all about Parkgate Mansions; i Frankford, Levita, you—every thing. I j had you watched; knew of your going : away to Brighton for the week-end; ■ knew that she was remaining behind. I saw Frankford arrive at the Mansions; I watched him go. Never had I folt so ] like killing my man; no, not even over! there in France. For, don't you see. he .'as killing my sister —he and his kind. I knew, it being Sunday, that at least half the staff would be "off duty. If I elude the porter, \\ rightson, who probably knew mc, who had good cause to | know mc, I might hope to reach her I fiat unobserved. Luck favoured mc, or ' so I thought it at the time. The other | entrance was unguarded. I slipped in! and up the stairs, meeting not a soul by the way. Quickly she answei-ed my' ring, and before she had recovered from her surprise I slipped in and shut the door after mc. A strange meeting of brother and sister. I looked at her without speaking; noted the change in her; the make-j up; the suspicious droop about the corners of her mouth. Already the life | she lived was beginning to tell its tale.i '•What do you want with mc?" she 1 asked. '"I have come to talk with you." "I refuse to listen." "I'm afraid you must. Have you forgotten everything?" "There was so much worth remembering," she sneered. But I saw her nervousness plainly through her annoyance. "Come," I said, "we are brother and sister. I owe a duty to you as well as i to myself." "I won't be preached at!" . "I won't preach, but I must explain. You see, I know everything." "Spying on mc. Well?" This de-j fiantly. "It's my own life, isn't it, and' I'll lead it my own way. I owe you i nothing, and I won't be dictated to." "But you are forgetting what you owe to yourself. This way you are going do you realise waht it means?" "You naturally think the worst! you would. But I have my way to make in the world." "You are making it, Poppy." "In my own way, which is entirely my affair." "Not entirely. You are my sister, and I must try to save you from yourself." Then she said: "Who the devil are you to regenerate the world? It doesn't want regenerating—it won't be regenerated. It's a beautiful world for some peonle, and if you try to alter it they'll crucify you. Haven't you learnt that truth yet, or are you quite a fool?" "This man Frankford? I saw him go just now." ° "Spy—police sypl" she sneered. "What is he to you?" "A friend." "Nothing more?" "This is intolerable," she said. "Will you please go?" "Constantine Levita another friend? Black Q.?" She paled under the rosy tint of her make-up; "I don't know what you mean." "I'll soon have them'both under lock and key." She looked up at mc with strained, anxious eyes. "Cocaine," I said. "Dangerous friends for a youn<* girl." "Is there no other crime you can charge mc with?" "Poppy, listen to mc. Let them all go; cut it all out. I am your brother; come and- live with mc. We are , all that's left, you "and I. I'll make you happy yet. For the sake of our dead mother," I implored. I believed this appeal had struck home; she seemed to hesitate. It may have been only my fancy, but I thought the hard look in her eyes softened. Then she drew herself up stiffly with the old insolence. I caw her father then; saw him and shuddered. "The proposition does not appeal to mc," she answered coldly. "But to continue this life; do you realise that it means shame, degradation, death?" She made some wild retort, but I went on: "I know how you are living, and it is useless for you to -attempt a denial. You think you are mistress of your fate, that you can pull up or go on at will. But you can't, you can't! The way you are going means a life of shame and degraded death. Already the drug has a hold on you; I can see it in your faec." "You lie!" she said. "You know I do not lie; you know what I am saying is the truth. I have seen many go that way, Poppy; oh, so many. Young girls like you, just beginning life, and brought down so low, co dreadfully low. My dear, see mc as you used to see mc when you were a child. I think you loved mc then; I know I worshipped you." "Oh, have done with, this sickening rot," she said, "What can you give mc, what do for me—a policeman! I should be ashamed for my friends to know I had a policeman for a brother. That's how proud I am of your position in the world; so proud that I have never dared mention the unpleasant fact, and I hope you won't, either. And stop this platitudinising humbug, this revolting cant. I "won't listen to it; I tell you I won't listen to it. And don't look at mc that with those damned lunatic eyes. I always hated them." Feared them, too, a little, I thought; but I said: "I have seen many go the way you are going; the way that leads to the death of the soul as well as the body." "Oh, my God," she screamed in anger, "am I to be forced to listen to such childish twaddle! Death of the soul! Do you still believe in all that rubbish?" "Don't you?" "No, I don't; never liave since I had sense enough to think things out. Who could but a fool?" "This is even worse than I thought." "Then give up thinking; go away; leave mc alone. I don't wish to see you

again, to know of your existence. I'll go my own -way to the devil if I want to." "That you shall not, if I can prevent it." rc You can't prevent it." "I would rather ccc you lying dead at my feet." Something in my eyes must have frightened her, for she suddenly shrunk from mc as though I had struck her. "Go away," she said. "Those hateful eyes!" "You are going straight to hell, and I, your brother, must save you in spite of yourself." "I always thought you were mad; now I'm sure of it. And I'll go to hell if I want to, or anywhere else." "Has the drug already such a hold on you that you are lost to all sense of decency ?" „ "And I'll drug, too, as much as I like; do what I like; go where I like. There, is that enough for you?" "You don't know what you are saying." '•I know quite well what I'm saying, what I'm doing. I don't interfere with you; why should you try to interfere with mc? I teli you I won't allow it." "That man who has just left you — does he know what you are?" "Hβ would marry mc to-morrow if he could," she cried triumphantly. "But does ho know what you are?" She came close to mc, eyes ablaze with something more than natural anger. I had seen the _ like before, and knew what it meant. Fiercely I caught .her by the arm and drew her to mc. "You are doped now!" "Let mo go," she screamed. "Damn you, let mc go!" But I swung her closer, laying bota my hands on her shoulders, making her \ look at mc. Such elim delicate i shoulders! Like a child's they seemed ,in my grasp. But suddenly they 1 stiffened; became shoulders of v steel. ! Back they bent under the pressure of my hands, and the next minute she had struck mc full in the face. God knows how it happened. I only know we struggled fiercely, brutally; she tearing and clawing at mc like a wild cat. I have tried since to think jit out; join piece to piece; gather up ! the varied threads. . But my mind is a ; blank, or a confusion of vague and terrible images. I think I must have i gone mad, for there lingers in my memory a sort of nebulous thought that I was doing what someone had to do; that I was saving a soul from hell! She hung limply in my hands, eyes staring blankly up at mc; a dead inert mass. Then, and then only, I regained my first glimmer of reason, and in the revulsion of feeling that swept over mc my grip on her throat relaxed. In- ! stantly she fell to the floor and lay thero very still, dreadfully still. I knelt by her, took her in my arms, called to her to open her eyes and look at mc; to speak if it were only to up- \ braid. But to my frantic appeals she made no response. Once her breast seemed to heave. I pressed my ear to it. There was no movement that I could detect. I gathered her up and laid her on the sofa. All that was possible I did to restore consciousness, but without avail. Frantic endeavour; intolerable agony of thought! She was gone, gone beyond recall. To mc it seemed there was nothing left now but to take my own life. I was not afraid of facing the punishment I had incurred; I do not think I even gave it a thought. Something far other urged mc to the act. I had killed the thing I loved best on earth, ! and knew there could be no more peace 1 for mc this, side of the grave. I even drew out my revolver and laid it against my temple. Then, looking once more at her lying there so still so calm I thought of those who had brought her to this; of what been. There was time enough for "mc; plenty of it. The power was in my own hands. I could do it when and where I pleased. Therefore would it not 'be better to live until I had brought to justice thosewho were indirectly responsible lor my crime? I knew them all; in time. I should gather them up one by one. But if I were to go, if were to be found there dead by her side, only one conclusion could have been come to; and they —those hateful ones —would ' have gone on their way of destruction making a mockery of life and death. For mc there was plenty of time. My work accomplished I should not hesitate to join her wherever she was. Acting on this impulse I stole her jewels and the little money she had in her possession—merely a few pounds — to make robbery appear the motive. Then I knelt beside her and begged forgiveness; again I kissed the face that had once been so dear to mc. No repulsion now, no hatred; just awful dreadful stillness. Did I regret ? An odd question, yet one I put to myself again and again as I looked at her, but could not answer. However unpardonable my sin I knew I had saved her from a life of sfiame and degradation. Perhaps there is something in this; I don't know, I leave it to others. When my day came, which I hoped might not be far off, I could make such atonement as was in my power. Nothing should prevent this. I was as fortunate in getting away unobserved from the Mansions as I had been in entering. The devil's luck, for I cared nothing now, and took less precaution. Late that night, from the centre arch of Westminster Bridge, I flung her money and her jewels far into the river. Then I met you, Marjorie. " At first I loathed you as one of the damned. You were sullen, insolent, provocative, and I was brutal. You see, I had no conception of the inner you. I thought of you as a nauseous thing, one of those flaunting creatures who are- a discredit to humanity, a disgrace to their sex. How the change came over mc I cannot even now pretend to tell, for self-analysis has failed to produce the key to the problem. I only know it came, dawning slowly, like the breaking of retarded daylight. Was .it pity for myself, pity for you? I'don't know. But little by little your true character was revealed to mc. You did not know what you had been doing, or what you might be about to do. What if my sister had been no wiser? Never had I so great a fear for myself as when I knew that I loved you. Assured that I had no right to your love, to the love of any woman, to the love or any human being, I experienced the most extreme pangs of misery. I would never go near you again, never see you; you should be blotted from my memory with my hopes of heaven. But you called to mc, my dear; your eyes called to mc, your voice. AH the sweet graeiousnesa of you had crept into my blood; become a part of mc, the spiritual, the greater, better part. Then it was I permitted myself to dream of happiness. Was it an impossible dream? Is it? ... Slowly she let the leaves fall into her lap as with misty eyes she eat staring into the fire. Inextricably woven through the dreadful truth was the all-conquer-

ing knowledge that Jie ha<t loved her-

loved her! In life he had loved her; in death, if the dead live, he would still love her. Michael, Michael! As her soul called to him, so called his soul to hers.Deliberately, sheet by sheet, she placed his confession on the fire; watched it burn, curl to charred blackness. Then, when all was over she turned towards the door behind which lay her beautiful dead hopes. "No one shall know, my dear," she whispered; "no one shall ever know." ' (The End.)