Frank Richardson - The Mayfair Mystery - 2835 Mayfair

He felt that he was out of place, angular, awkward, hideously modern in these beautiful antique surroundings. She, on the other hand, though dressed in the height of the fashion of the day, seemed perfectly in the picture. All beautiful things are, as has been well said, of the same period.

‘How good of you to be in, Miss Clive!’

‘How good of you,’ she corrected, ‘to keep your word!’

As he looked at her it seemed to him that she was genuinely pleased at his arrival.

‘I hope you have forgiven me for ringing you up in such an unmannerly way. But I was very, very anxious to see you again.’

‘You were, really?’ she asked, her eyes looking straight into his.

‘Really,’ he replied.

He felt that he was making headway. But still it seemed absurd to be in love with a woman of whose character and of whose antecedents he knew nothing. He hoped that she would enlighten him in the course of the conversation.

Vainly, however, did he strive to make her talk about herself. Of all women she appeared to be the least egotistical. She was as sensible as a man. She showed no sign of desiring to talk about ailments that occurred to the body. If a body is not in good condition it is not a matter to be mentioned in polite society. Either one is well or one is not well. The condition of ill-health is not suitable for discussion.

During tea, he mentioned the fact that she had taken the house belonging to a friend of his.

‘Do you know Sir Clifford Oakleigh?’ he inquired.

‘I have never seen him,’ she answered, ‘but I understand that he is a great friend of yours.’

‘He is my greatest friend, or rather…’ he was on the point of adding, ‘he was my greatest friend.’

For an instant it seemed to him that it was disloyal to his love not to tell her the mystery of the little house in King Street: he felt also that he had been disloyal to his friend in not going to find out if Reggie had any more information. On the whole, there was no object in telling Miss Clive of the strange events of Friday night. What interest would she take in a landlord whom she had never seen?

‘It is a very beautiful house,’ he commented.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think it is a perfect little house. All the rooms are as charming as this.’

‘But £2000 is a preposterous rent.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she answered, shrugging her shoulders and speaking as one to whom money is of very slight importance. ‘It’s the most perfect house…of its kind…in London, and one must pay for perfection.’

Deeply in love though Harding was, he felt considerable pleasure in this evidence of Miss Clive’s wealth.

He remained talking to her for half an hour and then reluctantly rose to leave.

‘A few friends of mine are coming to dinner on Friday at a quarter past eight at the Carlton. I should be delighted if you would come too.’

She thought for a moment, and then said:

‘On Friday, let me see. What day is this? This is Monday. Oh, yes, I shall be delighted. Thank you very much.’

Then he went away and reflected on the question of which of his friends deserved the privilege of meeting Miss Clive. Clifford Oakleigh should have headed the list.

The thought called to his mind his nearness to King Street. He would go and see Reggie and ascertain if there were any news.

Reggie opened the door and received him with enthusiasm.

‘It’s all right, my dear Harding,’ he said. ‘He’s alive, at any rate.’

Harding mistrusted him.

‘I won’t believe it on your evidence alone.’

‘Here’s the evidence of his own handwriting,’ said Reggie, and he produced from his pocket an envelope containing a plain sheet of notepaper. ‘I found it in the letter-box this morning.’

Harding looked at it curiously.

‘Yes,’ he said, as he examined the envelope, ‘it is his handwriting. But do you know it seems to me to lack a certain amount of vigour. It is not so strong, not so bold as his handwriting used to be. Am I to read the letter?’

‘Yes, certainly.’

This is what he read:

‘ Monday .

‘Shall be back tomorrow. Say nothing to anybody.

‘CLIFFORD OAKLEIGH.’

‘Well, that’s all right,’ said Harding, with a sigh of relief. ‘At any rate, he is safe. We know he is alive. But beyond question, his handwriting has altered. I should say he must be ill: it is certainly very feeble, for him. And how did the letter come?’

‘It was dropped in the letter-box. I heard a ring.’

‘You know, Reggie,’ said Harding, thoughtfully, ‘this makes the matter even more mysterious than it was before.’

‘You don’t think,’ answered Reggie, ‘that it is possible that this letter is a forgery. That it was done to prevent my going to the police?’

‘I don’t think so,’ the other replied; ‘a forger would have copied the writing exactly or would have made mistakes here and there. This note is clearly written by our friend, but written under circumstances which are unusual. He has never, to my knowledge, had a day’s illness in his life. I’m afraid he is ill now.’

Reggie might have suggested that his master was recovering from a very serious drinking bout. But he made no such suggestion.

The K.C., with a great weight off his mind, but with a far more astonishing problem on his brain, went out of the house.

At ten o’clock the next morning Reggie heard the sound of a latchkey in the door.

With bated breath he listened and darted into the hall.

The door opened and Clifford Oakleigh entered.

A man in the prime of life, strenuous and active, obviously in the most robust health.

The theory of drunkenness fell to the ground.

He closed the door. He nodded to Reggie.

‘Good-morning.’

‘Good-morning, sir.’ answered the valet, every inch a valet.

‘You got my note, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘By the by, what time did you come in from the Covent Garden Ball on Friday night?’

‘I didn’t go to the ball, sir.’

Sir Clifford looked keenly at him.

‘What did you do? When did you get in?’

‘Soon after ten.’

The eminent physician was on the point of putting a question to him, but he stopped, as though suddenly realising that he knew the answer to the question.

‘Pardell,’ he said, speaking very seriously, ‘I am paying you £500 a year not so much for your services as for your silence. You can never ensure, no matter what price you pay, the silence of a real servant. But a gentleman ought to know how to hold his tongue if you buy him a golden gag.’

‘I thought you were dead, murdered perhaps. I found you lying on the floor,’ stammered Reggie.

‘I don’t know what had happened. I was at my wits’ end.’

Clifford’s black eyes glittered.

‘I told you when I engaged you that you were never to tell anybody what happened in this house.’

‘I am very, very sorry, sir, I only told one person.’

‘The dickens you did! And who was it?’

Nervously Reggie answered:

‘I really thought you were dead. I thought there would be an inquest. And so I told Harding—I beg your pardon, sir, Mr Harding.’

Oakleigh whistled.

‘Well, I tell you what you’ve got to do now. You’ve got to go and tell him that the whole thing was an illusion. No, wait a minute. I’ll do it. I’ll tell him that you’re suffering from a serious nervous ailment, and that I am, out of my old friendship, keeping you here in the hope of effecting a cure. You know, Reggie,’ he added kindly, ‘you’ve led such a devil of a life that such an ailment would be but a very slight punishment for your misdeeds. Yes, if everybody had their rights, old chap, you would be dead.’