William Le Queux - The Lost Million

The mystery surrounding the dead man had been increased both by the discovery of his disguise and by the frankness of his letter, in which he plainly admitted that he was not what he had represented himself to be. Why had that letter been sent to him threatening revenge for the sentence upon the adventuress who called herself Lady Lettice Lancaster? What connection could he have had with such swindlers?

The whole affair formed a complete enigma. Perhaps I had acted very foolishly in mixing myself up with a perfect stranger, and as day succeeded day this thought became the more and more impressed upon me.

I suppose in order that you should understand matters aright I ought here to say something concerning myself.

I, Lionel Kemball, was aged twenty-seven. My father, a well-known London surgeon, who had been knighted for his services in the interests of surgical science, had died two years ago, leaving me with a comfortable old house, called Upton End, near Newport Pagnell, in Buckinghamshire, and an income of about a couple of thousand a year. Three years prior to his death he had retired and given up the house in Cavendish Square, preferring life in healthier and quieter surroundings. I had studied medicine, and had passed my preliminary examinations at Edinburgh, when I found myself troubled slightly with my lungs, and had been advised to take a trip to Australia. To my satisfaction I had returned in the very pink of health and perfectly cured.

I had visited Ceylon, the cities of Sydney, Brisbane, and Perth, had witnessed some of the wonders of New Zealand, and now, on my return, had become involved in this most curious and perplexing romance.

The day on which I opened Mr Arnold’s strange letter was the 8th of June, therefore twelve days had to elapse before I could go down to Devonshire to meet the mysterious Mr Dawnay.

Those were hot, exciting days. Such blazing weather in June had not been experienced in London for years. It was hot by day, succeeded by oppressive, breathless evenings, with that red dust-haze seen only in our great metropolis. The Derby had been run and London hotels were crammed. The colossal Cecil, at which it was my habit to stay, was filled to overflowing by crowds of Americans, and the West End ran riot with gaiety and extravagance, as it always does each season.

Perhaps fortunately for me, for it prevented my mind being too much concentrated upon my remarkable trust, I found myself involved in some trouble concerning some land down at Upton End, and I had a number of interviews with my late father’s solicitors. A lawsuit was threatened, and it looked much as though I should be the loser by several hundreds a year.

My mother died when I was but ten, and though I was fond of a country life, yet, somehow, since my father’s decease, I had not cared for the loneliness and solitude of the quaint old house. It was certainly a delightful old place, with several oak-panelled chambers, and clinging to it were all sorts of quaint legends of Roundheads and Cavaliers. Its old bowling-green and its gardens ablaze in summer with crimson ramblers were charming; yet it was, after all, only a white elephant to me, a bachelor. So I had kept on a couple of the old servants, who together with Tucker, the head-gardener, and his assistant, kept the place going – for I had secret thoughts of letting it furnished.

My trouble over the ownership of the piece of land forming a portion of the farm attached to the house, and several other matters which had been neglected owing to my absence in Australia, kept my hands pretty full; nevertheless, I found time one evening to take a taxi up to Highgate Cemetery in order to see that the grave of my dead friend had been properly closed and put in order.

It was about six o’clock in the evening when I arrived, and there were many friends and relatives tenderly watering the flowers on the graves of their loved ones. Without much difficulty I found the newly made mound of brown earth, but to my surprise I also saw that a magnificent cross of white flowers had been laid upon it.

This I eagerly examined, but no card was attached.

Surely whoever had placed it there had mistaken the grave, for Mr Arnold possessed no friends, and I had been the only follower. His decease had not been advertised; therefore surely none could know of his death.

For a few minutes I stood there, gazing upon the emblem, and pondering.

Suddenly I saw the cemetery-keeper, and walking up to him pointed out the grave and asked him if he knew anything of the cross that had been placed upon it.

“Oh, you mean Mr Arnold’s grave, I suppose, sir,” exclaimed the man.

“How do you know it is Mr Arnold’s!” I asked.

“Well, sir, the day after the funeral a young lady came to me and inquired where a Mr Melvill Arnold had been buried. So I looked it up in the books and told her. She’s been here every day since, and put fresh flowers there.”

“A young lady! What was she like?” I inquired. “Oh, well, she’s about twenty, I should say – pretty, with dark hair, and dressed in mourning,” he replied. “She comes each day about five, generally in a private motor-car – a big grey car. The flowers cost her a tidy lot, I should think, for they’re not common ones.”

“About five o’clock!” I exclaimed. “Has she been here to-day?”

“No. And she didn’t come yesterday either,” was the man’s reply. “Perhaps she’ll come later on. We don’t close till half-past seven just now.”

So I waited in patience in the vicinity, eagerly watching for the advent of the one person beside myself and the undertaker who knew of the last resting-place of the mysterious man who had deliberately destroyed his fortune.

I wandered among the graves for a full hour, until of a sudden the cemetery-keeper approached me, and in a low voice said —

“Look, over yonder, sir! That tall young lady in black with the chauffeur carrying the wreath: that’s the lady who comes daily to Mr Arnold’s grave.”

I looked, but, curiously enough, she had turned and was leaving the spot without depositing the wreath she had brought.

“Somebody’s watching her, sir,” remarked the man, “Perhaps she recognises you. She’s taking the wreath away again!”

The chauffeur was walking close behind her along the central avenue as though about to leave the burial-ground, when of a sudden she crossed the grass to a newly made grave, and there her man deposited the wreath.

She had detected somebody watching – perhaps she had suspicion of the keeper in conversation with myself; at any rate, she resorted to the ruse of placing the wreath upon the grave of a stranger.

Fortunately, I had been able to obtain a good look at her handsome, refined features, and I decided that hers was a countenance which I should recognise again anywhere.

I looked around, but could see no one in the vicinity to arouse her suspicion – nobody, save myself.

Why did she hold me in fear? By what manner had she been aware of the mysterious man’s death, or that I had been his friend?

I watched her turn and leave the cemetery, followed by her motor-driver.

Why did she hold the dead man in such esteem that she came there each day and with tender hands placed fresh flowers upon his grave? What relation could she be? And why did she thus visit his last resting-place in secret?

Of necessity I went down to Upton End in order to see old Tucker and his wife, who had acted as caretakers in my absence.

Thomas Tucker – a tall, thin, active, grey-moustached man of sixty-five – was a servant of the old-fashioned faithful school. For thirty-two years – ever since the day of his marriage – he had lived in the pretty rose-embowered lodge, and had been taken over by my father as part of the estate. Indeed, in such high esteem did the governor hold him that he was given an entirely free hand in all outside matters; while his wife – a well-preserved, round-faced woman, equally devoted to her master – was entrusted with the care of the servants and other domestic affairs.