Whatsoever a Man Soweth

“No, I don’t,” he declared, after a slight hesitation. “He’s a wrong ’un – I know that. Only, of course, that’s strictly between you and me,” he added in confidence.

“I’d like to know your sister,” I said, quite frankly. “I’ll make it worth her while if she’ll ask me in and let me see the house. She might do it when her mistress is out.”

He shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t think she’d let a stranger see inside, sir.”

“Well, there’s no harm in trying. Will you take me and introduce me?” I asked. “Take me this evening. When do you go off duty?”

“In about half an hour.”

“Then we’ll walk down there and call,” I suggested. “Here’s my card,” and I handed him the card of a barrister friend of mine which bore an address in the Temple.

He hesitated, but when he found another half-sovereign in his palm he consented, not, however, without a good deal of curiosity as to my real object.

What he had told me regarding the Parhams, in addition to that strange scene I had witnessed from the roadway, aroused my suspicion. I somehow felt confident that there was some connection between this man who ill-treated his wife so brutally and the unfortunate victim of the tragedy in rural Sussex I waited in a neighbouring bar until Laking came off duty, and then we walked together down Sydenham Hill to the house called Keymer.

My companion entered by the tradesmen’s lych-gate, and going up to the kitchen door, rapped at it, whereupon a big buxom woman in an apron opened it, and recognising him, gasped, —

“Oh! ’Arry, I’m so glad you’ve come! They told you about it, I suppose?”

“About what? I don’t know anything,” he replied, surprised at her white, scared face and the terrified look of one of the maids who stood behind her.

“Then go into the drawin’-room and look! It’s awful. There’s a curse on this ’ouse. Go and see for yourself.”

Startled, he hurried quickly through the kitchen and along the big, well-furnished hall, I following closely behind him, eager and bewildered.

And what we saw was amazing.

Chapter Thirteen.

Tells of Another Mystery

In the drawing-room a startling scene presented itself.

Lying in a heap across the blue silk-covered sofa lay the figure of the lady whom I had seen from without, seated at the piano, while beside her were the gardener and a scared female servant bending over her, and trying to restore her to consciousness.

A short distance away a second female figure was lying face downwards upon the carpet near the window – a young woman in cap and apron whom I recognised as the maid who had lowered the Venetian blinds. Around her face a long black scarf had been twisted tightly, and she lay there motionless.

“Oh! Mr Taking!” gasped the woman, bending over her mistress, “I’m so glad you’re here. There’s been men in the house!”

“Men!” he cried, amazed. “What’s happened to Mrs Parham?”

“We don’t knew. We’ve sent for the doctor and the perlice.”

“But look at Jane!” he exclaimed, crossing to her. “She’ll be suffocated;” and falling on his knees he quickly untied the slip-knot by which the black scarf – a long narrow one with coloured stripes at the ends like an Italian santuzza – had been secured around the girl’s face.

As we turned her over we saw that her drawn countenance was white to the lips. There was no movement that either of us could discover.

I stood gazing at the startling scene, wondering what had occurred.

Mrs Parham was, I saw, a brown-haired, good-looking young lady of about twenty-six. Her black silk blouse was fastened at the throat by a beautiful diamond brooch – one from her husband’s stock perhaps – but she wore no other ring except the badge of matrimony.

Her eyes were closed, and it appeared as though she had fainted, yet across her left cheek from mouth to ear was a deep livid ridge. A scarf somewhat similar to that used to stifle the cries of the maid had been used upon her.

“Tell us what’s happened?” inquired Laking, eagerly. “Who’s done this?”

The housemaid, turning from her mistress, replied, —

“Jane went to pull down the blinds about three-quarters of an hour ago, and I heard the mistress playing the piano in here. Then she suddenly stopped, but knowing that Jane was here I thought she was talking to her. Then I didn’t think any more about it till I found that the hot water hadn’t been put in the mistress’s bedroom, and that the blinds were still up. I went down to the kitchen, but cook said that Jane was still with the mistress. I said she’d been there a long time, and cook said perhaps she was getting a blowing up. It was ’er night out last night, and she was a half-hour late, and Mrs Parham is very particular, as you know.”

“And didn’t you hear anything?” I asked, surprised.

“Not a sound. It was the quietness of the place that first aroused my suspicion,” said the girl. “I crept along the hall and listened at the door to hear what the mistress was saying to Jane. But there was no sound. Then I went back and told cook, and we thought that they’d both gone upstairs perhaps. Presently I went back and tapped at the door, for it was nearly an hour since Jane had gone into the room. Nobody answered, so I pushed the door open, and there, to my horror, saw ’em both lying on the floor with these black things round their faces.”

“And you rushed out and gave the alarm?”

“I called in Lane, who’d just finished work and was going home. Then we hailed a telegraph boy who was passing and sent him for the doctor and the police. At first we thought the poor mistress was dead, but, you see, she’s still breathing, although very slightly. Look!” she added, holding up the scarf, “there’s a funny smell about it.”

“Chloroform!” declared the gardener, Lane. “I ’ad it when I ’ad my operation in the ’orspital. I know that smell well enough.”

“But what was the motive?” I asked, puzzled, glancing around the room and noticing that beyond a chair having been overturned and an antimacassar lying on the floor there was no sign of disorder.

The electric bell rang sharply, the cook went to answer the door, and a few moments later a constable in uniform entered.

To him I briefly explained the circumstances, without, however, telling him of the strange scene I had witnessed when I halted outside the gate. Then after the housemaid and gardener had told their stories, he bent over the prostrate lady, listening intently.

“She’s still alive, that’s quite certain,” was his remark, then crossing over to the girl he knelt beside her.

He made a cursory examination and shook his head dubiously. Like ourselves, he had doubts whether she still breathed. I had placed my hand upon her heart, but could discover no palpitation. There was a rigidity about the body, too, that caused me to suspect that the scarf had been around her mouth too long, and that she had expired under the effects of the drug.

We explained to the constable that a doctor in the vicinity had been called, and while we awaited his arrival I made a tour of the room with the officer.

It was a beautifully furnished apartment in the Louis Quinze style, with massive gold-framed mirrors and consoles, and furniture in gilt and pale blue, a room which betrayed everywhere the hand of a woman of culture and artistic taste.

Upon the wall was a large velvet-lined frame, on which were a number of beautiful old miniatures, and behind the grand piano stood a huge palm that reached nearly to the ceiling. Suddenly as I advanced to the window, close to where the maid had been lying – for the gardener and the cook’s brother had now lifted her on to a small couch – I noticed that there was a little glass-topped table in which were displayed some fine pieces of antique silver, and standing upon it was a cabinet portrait in a dark red leather frame.

The picture caught my eye and caused me to start. I stood glaring at it in utter bewilderment, scarce believing my own eyes.

Was I mistaken in those features? No. It was the same face – undoubtedly the same face!

The portrait was exactly similar, but somewhat larger, than that which Eric and I had discovered in Winsloe’s kitbag – the picture of the dead unknown!

A sudden suggestion occurred to me to obtain possession of it. It might be of the greatest use to us in establishing the unfortunate man’s identity. I therefore took it up, glanced at it, and in an abstracted manner placed it upon a side table near a curtain, intending later on to transfer it to the pocket of my overcoat – even at the risk of committing the offence of theft. In this I saw no harm. I was seeking to solve a mystery; and surely every mode was fair, now that a man had been done to death.

I recollected Eric’s terrible accusation, and held my breath.

Yes, he was Sybil’s secret lover without a doubt. Those letters were sufficient proof of that.