THE BITE OF - - - THE LEECH

Otago Witness, Issue 2561, 6 May 1903, Page 59

THE BITE OF - - - - THE LEECH

Being one of the Memoirs left by the late Colonel Sir NigaJ Lucaita, X.C.8., of Scotland Yard. Edited by Patrick Home.

By W. A. MACKENMF, Author of " His Majesty's Peacock," " Tho

Glittering Road," etc., etc.

[Copyright.]

CHAPTER XVlll.— (Continued.)

rfTLE sleep had I that niglifc, and \\ lien I rose at half-past 6 the following morning 1 was but ill-refreshed. Willingale had advised the local police ol Coster's death, and they were olriady at the Kind's Head, waiting to interview me. J explained as much as was ne-

ce&sary of the circumstances ta the inspector from (Southwell, and told him that I should hold myself in readiness la attend the inquest, but that, meantime, 1 should have to return to London. To this of course, he made no objection. It was half-ps»«t 7 when I reached Scotland Yard, and then I was faced by another catastrophe. I now began to realise the widespread influence of the gang I was striving to unmask. Marsh hud promised his men to return to the boat by 2 o'clock in the morning. If he had not returned by that time, he said, they must come and look for him. When the hour arrived, and he did not return, they sought to make an entrance by the river dojr ; but there they were baffled : the door v.-as of iron and the lock was so strong that only a charge oi dynamite could shatter it. So the three men landed and attempted the street door. This they found mors easy. It is needless to go through all the details of how they searched the house, and finally, by the merest chance, discovered the way into the cellar, where one of the most devoted officers the service has ever known was being slowly poisoned by coal gas. It was nearly sin the morning when they came upon him. He was then unconscious, and at this present hour he was still in that state Until he was able ta speak, what could we do? We knew nothing of what had transpired in the house in Lower Thames street. Before making my way to St. Bernard's Hospital, where he lay, I despatched Lascelles to the chemist's in Ebuiy road, for I wished that particular point to be cleared up as quickly as possible, and also set other two men td the task of finding out Sword"? movements. I was just turning out of the Yard when a brougham dashed up at a great pace. The arms on the panel caught my eye— a bloody hand in a wreath of laurel. "Lord Lechmere," said I to myself. "1 ■wonder does he want me?" So I turned and met him as he was stepping out.

"Well met, Colonel Lacaita," he cried, taking me by the arm. "Come with me at once. My daughter wants to see you. She thinks that Mrs Oxborrow is doming out of her delirium, and that yon may desire to put some questions to her."

"Indeed, I do," I replied. "But it seems almost cruel to cross-examine a woman who may be on the verga of tlie grave

"Come!" said he. "Time flies, and this Is not the moment to be tender-hearted. Great wrongs have been done. Justice must have her way. If Mrs Oxborrow is able to speak, she must speak."

"I am sure," I said, "that whatever part Mrs Oxborrow has taken in this sad business was an unwilling one."

"I am certain of that, myself," he returned; "and surely her innocence is all the more reason why she should speak."

"But," said I, "how if what she knows Implicates her husband?"

"If it implicates him," said Lord Lechmere, "he must have been a party to making her an accomplice ; and I cannot understand how a woman can love a man — can have any affection for him, one shred of respect for him; can care whether he, live or die, or is still held in honour or disgrace, after using her, or allowing her to be used, so basely."' "If Oxborrow has done this thing," said I, "how he must have changed from the Oxborrow that I knew."

"Ah, time changes us all," said his lordship, somewhat sententiously. "Some of us for the better, most of us for the worse. Come!" he added as we alighted, "Dolly was to wait for us in the library."

Another surprise awaited me when I entered the stately room where Lord Lechmere penned that series of brilliant novels ■which has won him the somewhat lefthanded title of the "Second Disraeli." Lady Dolly was there, and she had a companion — Clayton Oxborrow. Of course, he had a perfect right to be there; he had, no doubt, called to get information about his wife — if not, indeed, to see her. In fact, I made sure that Lady Dolly, seeing the approach of the end, had summoned him. But in a moment or two I was undeceived.

Lady Dolly was speaking very emphatically as we entered. "Ifc cannot be, Mi Oxborrow," she was Baying. "Sir William has given orders, and they must be obeyed."

Oxborrow turned to us as we came in, and addressed himself to my companion. "Lord Lechmere," he cried, "I appeal from Caesar's daughter to Csesar himself. I am, unfortunately, compelled by business which admits of no delay, to crots to Paris. I desire to see my wife before I go. Am t not to be permitted to .do so ?"

"It sounds hard," answered his lordship, "but I know that Sir William Montgomery Bias given orders that, until Mrs Oxborrow shows decided signs of recovering from her distressing condition, she is to see no one 11 — least of all you. Pardon me," he went on as he Raw Oxborrow about to interrupt (him, "let me finish. In cases like Mrs JOxborrow's, Sir William says, the excitement of seeing those nearly related and "dearly esteemed is often sufficient, at a critical moment, to cause a relapse. In •Mrs Oxborrow's present condition, excitement might be fatal. I know it is hard that a, husband should be debarred from seeing his wife, but, for her sake as well as for your own "

"But I have my legal rights," burst in Oxborrow impetuously.

"I am surprised, sir," said Lord Leclimere sternly, "to hear a gentleman talking of insisting on his legal rights."

"Forgive me," said Oxborrow, "but it. is days since I have seen my wife, and she has been ill ami suffering.' Oxborrow had such sincerity in his voice, and such evident earnestness in his face, that I was moved to think he was either a consummate actor or a man who was more Binned against than sinning. Which he was I could not decide, although all my prejudices influenced me in his favour. I would put the matter to the proof. "Pardon me," said I, "but with Lady Dolly's permission I should like to speak with Mr Oxboirow for a moment in private."

Lord Lechmere waved a courteous hand, and, together with Lady Dolly, withdrew to one end of the magnificent room. I took Oxborrow's arm and led him to the embrasure of a window. Then I turned and faced him.

"Oxborrow," said I, "your wife is in a dangerous condition. Sir William Montgomery has said that if she were to receive a shock now "

"I know all that," he interrupted impatiently. "And what do you mean by receiving a shock? How should I shock her?"

"Your wife," said I, "received one shock "when she heard of your brother John's death." "My brother John?" he gasped. "Yes, your brother John — Joox." "Why do you say that man was my brother?" he asked. "Never mind,"' I said. "Enough that I know. And enough that his death was the cause of her terrible collapse." "Why should it be?" he asked.' "She did not know him." I made a mental note of his tacit admission that I was right. "And yet, in her delirium," said I, "she has cried his name. Now that she is very slightly recovered, and may recover still more, it would not be wise for her to «cc anyone — even you — who will remind her of what caused this trouble at first." "Oh, my dear Lacaita," he said, smiling rather contemptuously, and brushing aside my restraining hand on his arm, "this is all nonsense. It is not at all reasonable that a husband should be kept thus from Lis wife. I tell you I must see her, and I will see Her." It flashed upon me that his vehemence was real ; and the moment I appreciated that, I sought for the motive. Of course, the fiist suggestion that leaped to my mind was that he wished., now that she was regaining her senses, to warn her against confirming any of the things she might have uttered in her ravings. I could imagine that his mind was tortured by the thought that she had already said far too much, and that he buoyed himself up only by the hope that her hearers would treat all her utterances as the mere empty babble pf a disorganised brain. Yet he wanted to make sure. Well, I had to combat him j I had to jpeveat him from warning her.

And I must use every weapon I possessed to achieve that end.

"Now, Oxborrow," said I, "although this is an awkward moment for my question, why did you suppress the fact that the murdered man was your brother?"

"Ah," he sighed, "there you have touched on a sore point. My brother John was a bad lot — about as bad a lot as ever broke his mother's heart, and sent his father's grey hairs to the grave in sorrow. He was my partner and — he forged. I paid the money, although it nearly broke me, on condition that he left this country and stayed away for the rest of his life. He went, although he was very unwilling to go. He wanted to stop and brazen the matter out ; be wanted a full investigation, because he swore that he was innocent, and went to the absurdity of declaring that it was I and not he who had done the forgery. But I soon showed lrm how much I knew, and finally he went away to South Africa, or India, or somewhere. And from that day until I saw him lying dead I never set eyes on him. That was why I didn't care to recognise his dead body. Ah, it was a sad end — a sad end to so promising a beginning.'' "I suppose you told your wife that you recognised your brother in tbe dead man?" He grasped at the situation as a drowning man at a straw. "Of course, of course. I tell her everything. She is a true wife, and I have no secrets from her."

"Well, you see," 1 went on, "what your telling her has brought about. Don't you understand that if she were to see you now, her mind would run back to your brother and all the sad trouble, and she would be as bad as ever. Take my advice, Oxborrow — the advice of a true friend — do not insist."

"I cannot take your advice. You mean well, but you do not understand." "Well, then," said I, "won't you wait until we get Sir William's permission?"'

"No, I won't."

"It will be only courteous to Lady Dolly and Lord Lechmere. You can't make a scene here." "All right. Will you te'ephore?' 1 I walked to the other end of the library.

"Mr Oxborrow," said I, "is content not to push his demand at this moment. But he has asked me to telephone to Sir William Montgomery for permission to see his wife."

"A very proper and judicious course,"' said the master of the house very stiffly.

I left the room.

I did not telephone to Sir William, but I did to Scotland Yard, for I knew now that Oxborrow was not the man I hod thought him — I knew him now for a liar and a thorough-paced shufller. He had done his best to throw dust in my eyes. He had failed, but he did not know it yet.

CHAPTER XIX.— MRS OXBORROW BEGINS TO TALK.

When I was assured from Scotland Yard that a detective was well on Ins way to Lechmere Hou«e, ready to shadow Oxborrow the moment he left, I returned 10 the library, full of a story of having had a conversation with Sir William Montgomery, in which the eminent physician had emphatically ordered that on no account •nas Oxborrow to see his wife. I was spared the unpleasant task of lying, for as I walked along the coriidor the great hall door opened, and Sir William himself entered.

In a tew words I explained the situation to him. &

"Very pretty," was all he said. "Very pretty!" And he pressed his lips together and puckered his eyebrows in thought. Then, after a few seconds' pause :

"Of course, he must not see her. Where did you say he is?"

"In the hbiary — with Lord Lechmere and Lady Dolly." "Take me there." After the curtest of greetings, Sir William assumed his most Jovian manner.

"Your request has been made known to me, Mr Oxborrow, and I regret, I regret exceedingly, that I cannot see my way to accede to it. I sympathise with you, I sympathise deeply ; but in this matter I must be adamant. My first care is to save your wife's life, sir, and if I am to do that — or even come near doing it — my orders must be obeyed I thank you, Lady Dolly, for being so firm. It wanted courage. It wants courage on my own part. But it must be so."

"Can I not speak to my wife for one moment, Sir William?"

"Not for one moment, sir. I tell you it is impossible — absolutely impossible."

Oxborrow paled, and I could see that he was keenly aware oi the ppnl of his position. He feared that Lois had babbled things likely to give rise to suspicion, and suspicion would mean questions when she regained sensibility. Would she be strong enough not to speak? He must make sure; he must warn her.

"Sir William,"' he said, "please do not think I am not satisfied with your treatment." "I care little, sir, whether you are satisfied or not — I am. And Lord Lechmere called me in — not you."

"I should like you to meet sbme other specialist for a consultation."

"I take instructions from Lord Lechmere," said Sir William sharply. "Perhans it might relieve Mr Oxborrow's mind " becran the Earl.

"As you will, as you will," interrupted Sir William, with an offended wave of the hand.

"Then," said Oxborrow, "I should like Sir Thomns Fitzgerald to be summoned." Sir William bowed. "I shall fetch him myself," said Oxborrow. Sir William bowed again. Lord Lechmere touched a bell, and a servant entered.

"Have you a carriage? No I A hansom for Mr Oxborrow."

When lie was gone we looked at each ether.

"I see," said Lord Lechmere. "that we each have &• s&eie tkftUfi^ti JJe wanted

to see her — to warn her — to terrorise her. Eh?"

"That is very evident," said Sir William. "But he shall not. He will win over Fitzgerald to his way of thinking. Fitzgerald hates me in no small measure ; so, of course, he will oppose my treatment, my views, my orders, my everything. I want nothing better. I shall ask for another consultant — a third. So time is gained."

"And every moment is of importance," said I. >f Do you think Mrs Oxborrow is strong enough now?" "Give me three minutes and I'll tell

And Sir William left the room

"Colonel Lacaita,' said Lady Dolly, as she opened a drawei in a writing-table and drew out a handful of manuscript sheets, "I fear Sir William will be very angry with me, and I look to you and father to make my peace with him."'

"What is it, Dolly?" said Lord Lochmeie.

"Last night, you know, I sat by Lois. About a quarter-past 1 she opened her eyes, and, putting her hand to her shorn head, whispered 'Dolly.' In a moment I was holding hei emaciated fingers. ' What is it, Lois?' I said. 'Tell me, Dolly,' she said — 'I have been ill, very ill?' 'Very ill. Lois, dear.' '1 have been talking 'i ' 'Oh, yes, you've been talking a lot. But you mustn't talk now ; you are very weak.' 'What have I been saying?' 'Oh, nothing particular ; a great deal of nonsense, but nothing particular.' 'Did I f-prak of JooxV I could not help my face betraying me. ' Ah,' she cried, ' I see that I have. Then I must also have said something more.' 'I really don't know, dear,' said I. 'You see, I have not been with you always. Klara has taken it in turn to sit by you.' 'Dolly,' said she, have they found his body:?' 'Whose body?' said I, thinking it well to feign ignorance. 'John's body — my John — John Oxborrow.' 'You mean,' said I, 'the man m the barn?' 'Yes,' she said, putting her hand over her eyes as if to shut out some horrible sight. ' No,' I said, ' I don't think so. At least I have not heard.' ' Then I must speak,' she said. 'I must tell them where to find it.' ' Ihen,' said I, 'you do know?' 'Dolly,' she said, ' I know I am very weak, and I feel I am going to die. Not tonight, not to-monow, perhaps — but soon. And I want to tell all that I know of how my poor John was done to death." ' You are getting excited, Lois, dear,' I said ; ' try to be calm. Try to go to sleep just now, and you can speak to-morrow.' 'I may not be abe to speak to-morrow,' she answered ; ' I will speak to-night, while I have strength. Go you, Dolly, and gb'o some paper, and write down what I teil you. Then, if I die before morning, the story will still be there.' Perhaps I was wrong, Colonel Lacaita, but I did as she asked me to do. It is all wiitten here."

Sir William entered, and Lady Dolly spoke of what had happened. "I am glad," said Sir William, "that that happened, for I do not think that Mrs Oxborrow will live ior more than three or four hours. She is now very weak, but in possession of all her faculties. I propose that we go to her room — Colonel Lacaita and I will remain behind a screen — and you, Lady Dolly, will read over what she dictated to you. I think that sRe will hold out long enough to be able to sign it. And if you, my ioid, as a magistrate, will countersign it '

"Certainly I will," said Loid Lechmere. "It will be "no pleasure; it will be, indeed, a very sad duty."

What a curious quietness always reigns in the room of an invalid ; and what a strange expectation seems to be in the air when a human being is not far from eternity. It would seem almost as if Death sent a hush and silence before him, to tuna the heart to the greater hush and silence that is to come. I confess that, seated behind that screen in Mrs Oxborrow's room, I was overawed by the stillness and by the way in which Lady Dollj and Lord Lechmere involuntarily lowered their voices as they spoke to the poor woman in whom life was struggling and fighting for its last few breath«.

''Lois," said Lady Dolly, "I have spoken to my father about what you told me last night. I am going to read over to you ■what I wrote. If I have made any mistakes you w ill correct .hem. Then when I have finished I want you, if you are strong enough, to sign what I have written, and my fathei will witness it.''

"Yes, yes," came in a whisper from the bed. "Read. Read quickly, for I do not think I have much longer to stay."

Then in a low huiried tone Lady Dolly began to read, the grey evening light from the window facing the paik falling on her, and gradually growing dimmer and dimmer as she made progress with the narrative.

'' ' Twelve years ago. when I was 16, I came home from school in Germany for the summer vacation. For my age I was a singularly ignorant girl — ignorant of the ways of the world, that is. And though I knew that many girls of the same age had — what shall I call them? — sweethearts, lovers, I had none ; and I had no thoughts of such a thing. But that summer there stayed for a few weeks at Carthew Thorpe a young man, a clerk in the War Office, called Swoid — Ermenred Sword. He was a friend of my biother's, and to me — I have no reason now t be anything but frank and truthful — he grew in a short time to be mv one thought, the only man for whom I had eyes. H- 3 , made himself very agreeable to me, and indeed he could not help seeing that I was fond of him, for I was always impulsive and open, and I had not the wisdom to hide the feelings that possessed me.

" ' For a fortnight, perhaps three weeks, he made violent love to me, and I, out of the innocence of my heart and my impulsive nature, responded to him. Then he had to po away — to return to his work in London. We had a last meeting at our favourite corner in the woods. I felt the parting keenly, and I could not help showing that I felt it. I would love him always, I said ; and I wpuld count tiie djjy^ tiie yejL

minutes, until he should come back and marry me. My ideas of romance had all their ending in marriage bells. I had no thought that sucli a happy time as I had experienced could have any other ending. But this man soon disillusioned me. When I clung to him in the pain of my sorrow he only laughed. And when I said, "You will come back soon? Oh, promise that you will come back soon," he laughed still more. I asked him why he laughed. "Ah, my pretty little Lois," he said — how I remember every word that he spoke, just as if it h?d all happened last night — "ah! my pretty little Lois, you'll soon forget me wlrrii the next one comes along." "Forget you?"' I answered; "that is impossible. And what do you mean by the next one? The next what?" "Come, now," said he, "don't be so serious. You kaow well enough what I mean. The next goodlooking young fellow you want to kiss and make love tc — you make love very nicely, you know. A trifle too earnestly, perhaps, but still very- nicely."

" 'In a moment, in a flash, I saw the kind of man to whom I had given my heart. He had only been playing with me, been amusing himself with me. As far as I was concerned, I was only one of a number of pleasant incidents in a pleasant holiday. All he could get he took, and then, when he had to go, I was dropped out of his memory and flung away like a cigar-stump.

" ' In a moment all the love that I had felt for him changed to bitterness and hate. The moon was shining, I remember, and it fell on his face. As I looked at him I saw then that the features which 1 had thought so handsome, the eyes that I hnd gazed into so fondly, were stamped with callousness — were cruelly cold. Yes, hate rose up in me. All the passion of my nature woke up as from skep, and to his face I told him tint he was a coward and a thief — a thief because he had taken all the freshness of my heart and destroyed it; because the thought of him would make me regard all men alike— so that I might miss happiness in life ; and a coward because he had not the courage to let me go on in my dream ; because to avoid trouble to himself he had shown me the bitter truth. " I hate you," I cried. " I hate you, and I pray to God that I may never see your face again." "Ah, don't say that," he laughed — I could hive struck him — "don't say that. Very likely we shall meet again. And if so, and if you have nothing better to do, and if there is no more pleasing hero to your hand, we may perhaps resume our charming little friendship. Good-bye, little Lois, and — don't take to the next one so much au grand serieux." "'Oh, how I hated him! And how I hated myself for allowing myself to be so humbled. I think my hate of myself was even stronger than my hate of liim. I had to go back to school, and, do you know, for long hours every night I used to lie awake trying to kill the memory of those summer days, to kill them by sheer force of hate. And by-and-bye time and my own strength of will Enabled me to thrust them behind me, ana only now and then did they come back, like the remembrance of a nightmare. That was my introduction to Ermenred Sword.' "

This -was certainly one of the dramatic things in my life. Even after tins lapse of time I can still hear Lady Dolly's quiet voice as she read that painful document, and I can hear the fall in her tone as she read the last sentence and the rustle of the paper as she turned over to a new leaf. I held my breath; and well I might, for what was coming now was to explain away many difficult things and make clear all that had been so impenetrably dark

Lady Dolly went on : — "'What shall I say next? It is all so muddled, and my poor head is so tired, so weaiy. After 15 or 18 months I returned from Geimany and "came out." In the succession of pleasures that marked that event I began to forget all the sorrow and pain of the last months, and, besides, I had met a man who seemed to be genuinely and truly fond of me. I liked him from the first, but I was afraid to let my feelings speak. My first experience of men had taught me to doubt myself, to be chary even of becoming a man's friend. Hut little by little, during a season of constant gaiety — dinner parties, theatres, dances, wheie I met him almost every night — I rould not help admitting to myself that I cared more for John Oxborrow than I thought I ever should for any man. There is little use now in telling you 'what he was to me or what I thought of him. Let me rather come to the end of that dream — all my dreams seem fated to end sadly. It was a dance at Harradens. It had been arranged between us that he was to see my father that night to put the all-momentous question to him, and that ht> was come to the Harradens' and let me know how he had been received. He came, and I could see by his face that something had gone wrong. It was some little time before he could find his way to my side. And then it was only to whisper to me that he had ccjne to say good-bye for ever. This must be a joke, I thought. He has seen father, and, of course, been accepted as a son-in-law. He only wishes now to tease me. Yet somehow, in spite of this thought, there was a vague uneasiness at the back of my mmd — a feeling that, after all, something untoward might have happened. But this talk of good-bye for ever — oh, no, I would hear none of that. " ' But in the conservatory he told me that which made my blood run col 3. He had not seen my father, because that afternoon his brother, Clayton Oxborrow, had charged him with forgery — nay, had not. only charged him, but was in a position, so strangely had circumstances fallen, to piove his charge. John swore to me he was innocent, but I needed no assuiance from him. I knew that such a thing was impossible to his nature — it was impossible then, I know — whatever misfortune end bitterness may have made him do afterwards. He had his choice, he said, of going to piison or some foreign country. Loving life, and having a faint hope of being able to prove his innocence one day,

■would not bind to him by any promise.Before I had well realised the greatness, of this new sorrow, before I had even grasped; the fact that he was going away from me, he was gone, and 1 was sitting plucking my feather fan to pieces, and only not weeping because I could not weep— the loneliest girl in London that nights From that hour until a few hours before he was found dead I did not set eyes on John Oxborrow.

" ' I cannot come down to my last-.meet-' ing Avith him without mentioning at- leasfl one other point— my marriage with hia brother. Ido not 'wish to say anything against my father. He is dead, and I daresay he thought he was doing all for the best. But he forced me, compelled me, to marry Clayton Oxborrow. He had, perhaps, other reasons for his action. I may suspect what these -were, but I shall not speak of them. Enough that I waa married to a man to whom I was, and am, wholly indifferent. I did not even respect him ; and now I loathe and hate him — next after Sword.

" 'Next after Sword? you may say. Yes, I loathe and hate him worst of all, because he spoiled what should have been the happiest days of my youth ; because he was the evil genius of the man I loved — the man I love still ; because, last of all, he killed him in cold blood ; yes, killed John Oxborrow — mv John.' "

(To be continued.)