The Wiles of the Wicked

“I have a visitor, it seems,” I exclaimed, stopping short. “May I not know your name?”

There was no response. Instinctively I knew that the woman I had thus disturbed was still present in that room wherein I spent so many lonely hours. Her startled cry was sufficient to convince me that she was there for some secret purpose. What, I wondered, could it be?

“Speak,” I urged. “Kindly explain your business with me, and the reason of your presence here.”

Yet she uttered no word of response, and apparently did not move.

I advanced, crossing towards the window, where I believed she must be standing, but with a quick movement my mysterious visitor eluded me, passing me by so near that her warm breath fanned my cheek, and next instant she had escaped and slammed the outer door of my chambers.

I stood wondering. Her presence there was most extraordinary. The faithful Parker, too, was absent, a circumstance which aroused misgivings within me. Could this strange female visitor have entered the place with a false key; or was she a mere pilferer whom I had disturbed in her search for plunder? Numbers of female thieves haunt the London streets, and it seemed more than likely that she was one who had ascended the stairs on pretence of selling something or other.

At any rate, I had returned at an unexpected moment, or she would not have given vent to that involuntary cry of dismay. I groped about the familiar room in order to ascertain whether it were disordered, but could find nothing whatsoever out of place. I called Parker loudly by name, but all was silence save the quick ticking of the timepiece upon the mantelshelf.

The clock of St. Clement Danes chimed merrily, then slowly struck the hour. I counted, and found that it was eleven o’clock in the morning. How much had happened during the past fifteen hours! I had twice nearly lost my life.

Having cast aside my hat, I sank into my armchair, muddy and dirty, just as I was. My head, where it had been struck in the accident, pained me considerably, and I felt that I had a touch of fever coming on. Yet all my thoughts were concentrated upon the future and what the curious alliance with my strange protectress might bring upon me. Surely no man had ever found himself in a more remarkable situation than I was at that moment; certainly no man could be more mystified and puzzled. Deeply I pondered again and again, but could make nothing of that tangled web of startling facts.

By no desire or inclination of my own I had fallen among what appeared to be very undesirable company, and had involuntarily promised to become the assistant of some person whom I could not see. The strange oppression that fell upon me seemed precursory of evil.

My wet clothes sticking to me chilled me to the bone, and, with a sudden resolve to shake off the gloomy apprehensions that seemed to have gripped my heart, I rose and passed into my own room to wash and get a change of clothing.

The prolonged absence of Parker caused me much wonder. She never went out unless to go into the Strand to purchase the diurnal steak or tri-weekly chop which constituted my chief sustenance; or, perhaps, on Sunday afternoon she would, on rare occasions, go “to take a cup o’ tea” with her daughter, who was a music-hall artiste, and lived somewhere off the Kensington Road.

Having cleaned myself, I proceeded to dress the wound on my head, my own medical knowledge standing me in good stead, and when I had satisfactorily bandaged it and put on a dry suit of clothes, I groped about through the several small rooms which were my home. Nothing seemed disarranged, nothing missing – only the woman who had ever been so faithful to me and had treated me as tenderly in my helplessness as though I had been her own son.

In impatience I took a cigar, lit it, and sat down to wait. No doubt, when she returned I should find that she had been absent upon some errand connected with her not-over-extensive cuisine. The thought grew upon me that my promise to the mysterious Edna, whoever she might be, was a rashly foolish one, and must result in some very serious contretemps for me. I had willingly given up my liberty of action and become the instrument of a person who had, without doubt, imposed upon me. It seemed most probable, now that I reflected, that she was acting in concert with the man who had so cleverly practised deception upon me and led me to believe that he was a police-constable. That man, it now seemed plain, had followed me from the house of mystery, allowed me to wander sufficiently far to lose my bearings, and then got on in front of me so that I might approach and accost him. The whole affair had been carried out with amazing ingenuity, and every precaution had apparently been taken to conceal the remarkable tragedy. Yet the chief feature of the affair which puzzled me was the motive in endeavouring to take my life in that cellar beside the Thames. I had surely harmed no one, and, being utterly ignorant of the house wherein the affair had taken place, and also knowing me to be blind, they certainly could not fear any revelations that I might make. It was an enigma which I strove in vain to solve.

My gloomy thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a latch-key in the outer door, and as I rose old Mrs Parker entered with an expression of profound surprise.

“Why, sir?” she cried. “I understood that you’d gone away into the country!”

“Into the country?” I echoed. “Who told you so?”

“The lady you sent to tell me.”

“Lady? What lady?” I inquired, amazed. “Surely, Parker, you’ve taken leave of your senses?”

“The lady came about an hour ago, sir, and said that you had sent her to tell me that you would be absent for perhaps a week or so – that you had gone down to your uncle’s in Hampshire.”

“I’ve sent no one,” I responded, astounded at this fresh phase of the affair. “What kind of lady was she – old or young?”

“Middle-aged.”

“Well-dressed?”

“Yes, sir. She spoke with a funny kind of lisp, which made me think she might be a foreigner. She said she knew you quite well, being a friend of your aunt’s, and that you were travelling down to Hampshire this morning, your uncle having been taken ill. I remarked that it was strange that you shouldn’t come home for your bag and things, but she gave me a message from you to send a bag packed with your clothes by train from Waterloo to Christchurch Station marked ‘To be called for.’”

“But didn’t you think her story a very lame one, Parker?” I asked, angry that my old serving-woman should have thus been misled and deceived.

“Of course I did, sir, especially as you were absent all night. I told her that, and she said that you had called upon her, and finding your aunt, Lady Durrant, there on a visit, remained to supper. While at supper a telegram had arrived summoning your aunt home, as your uncle had been taken dangerously ill, and at once you had resolved to accompany her. But you’ve hurt your head, sir, haven’t you?” she added, noticing my bandages.

“Yes,” I answered. “I fell down. It is nothing – my own carelessness.”

The story was, to say the least, a most ingenious one. Whoever the mysterious woman was she apparently knew that my uncle, Sir Charles Durrant, lived in the neighbourhood of Christchurch; that he was at that moment in a very critical state of health, suffering from paralysis, and further, that I had considerable expectations from him, and would not hesitate to travel down to see him if I knew him to be worse. One thing, therefore, was quite plain, namely, that my family affairs were perfectly well known to these persons whose movements were so mystifying.

“It was foolish of you, Parker, very foolish indeed, to have given credence to such an absurd tale as that,” I said, annoyed. “You are usually a shrewd woman, but you have displayed no discretion in this affair – none whatever.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” the woman answered. “But I knew that if Sir Charles were worse you’d go down to the Manor at once. Did you really send nobody, sir?”

“No; nobody at all. There’s some underhand business in all this, Parker, so keep your wits about you.”

“And haven’t you seen her ladyship at all, sir?” she inquired, in her turn astonished.

“No, and, moreover, I know nothing of this mysterious woman who came to you with this cock-and-bull story. Did she say where she lived, or give any card?”

“No, she didn’t, sir.”

“I suppose you’d know her again if you saw her?”

“Well,” she answered with considerable hesitancy, “I don’t know as I should, sir. You see, she wore one of them white lace veils which makes it difficult to distinguish the features.”

“But what object could any one have in coming to you and telling a falsehood in that manner?” I cried, my anger increased by the knowledge of Parker’s inability to again recognise the bearer of the false message.

“I don’t know, I’m sure, sir,” was the woman’s reply, in a voice which showed how deeply she regretted the occurrence.

“How long was she here?” I inquired.

“About five minutes. She asked me to let her see your sitting-room and the reading-books with the embossed letters, as she was much interested in you, and had heard so much of you from Lady Durrant.”

“And you showed them to her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you had no right to do so without my permission, Parker,” I said angrily. “You are an old and trusted servant, and should have known better.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. The truth was that she seemed such a well-spoken lady, and her manner was so perfect that I thought you would not like to offend her.”

“Recollect that if any other persons call they are not to enter my rooms on any pretext,” I said decisively.

“Very well, sir. I acknowledge that I was entirely in the wrong in allowing her to pry about the place.”

“And when she had gone?”

“Then I went over to the butcher’s in the Strand to get a bit of steak.”

“And saw nothing more of her?”

“Yes, sir. I did see her again. As I was coming back I met her in the Strand, at the corner of Arundel Street, walking with a gentleman who looked like a City man. She said something to him, and he turned and had a good look at me.”