The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

“Speaking from memory, I should say about a year before.”

And at this point Mr Boyle rose, drew a pair of faded gloves from his pocket, and put them on preparatory to his departure.

“In a case of this kind, Mr Smeaton, it is well to remember the French proverb, ‘Look out for the woman.’ You, no doubt, have followed several clues, and evidently to no purpose. Well, I will give you one gratis – keep your eye upon Lady Wrenwyck, now a middle-aged woman, but, at the time to which I refer, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day, and, according to rumour, wildly in love with Reginald Monkton. It may lead to nothing, of course, but I think the tip is worth following.”

“I am obliged to you, and will certainly act upon your advice,” said Smeaton gravely, as he held out his hand.

As Mr Boyle took it his former eccentricities of manner returned. He bowed profoundly, and spoke in his high, artificial voice.

“Sir, I am more than flattered. I shall go later on to Miss Monkton. I should much like to make the acquaintance of my old friend’s daughter.”

Smeaton was aghast at this declaration. He had a shrewd suspicion that his real object in interviewing Sheila was to trade on his old acquaintance with her father, and probably obtain a loan. It was a hundred to one that such a mercurial creature would drop some disquieting hints about Lady Wrenwyck.

“I would beg of you to postpone your call, Mr Boyle. Miss Monkton is, naturally, in a state of great depression and anxiety. I should, however, very much like you to see Mr Austin Wingate, who is her best friend. If you will favour me with your address, I will arrange a meeting.”

Mr Boyle, indulged in another of his grotesque bows. He scribbled on a piece of paper, and handed it to the detective.

“I should be glad to have that meeting arranged as soon as possible, Mr Smeaton.” There was a shade of anxiety in his voice. Smeaton was sure that philanthropy was not the sole motive of his visit. “Once more, good-bye.”

He advanced to the door, hesitated, with his hand upon the knob, and half turned round, as if about to say something more. Apparently he changed his mind.

“A random thought occurred to me, but it is nothing – not worth pursuing,” he said airily, and passed out.

But Smeaton knew instinctively the reason of that pause. Boyle had screwed up his courage to borrow money, but he could not bring it to the sticking-point.

Had he told the truth or were his statements pure invention?

Chapter Twenty.

A Conference at Downing Street

“He’s a blatant idiot, with lucid moments. And in one of those rare moments of lucidity he told me about Lady Wrenwyck. You agree with me, I am sure, that, at any cost, he must be kept from Miss Monkton.”

Such was Smeaton’s pithy summing-up of his late visitor to Austin Wingate, who had hurried round on receipt of an urgent note from the detective.

“I agree absolutely,” was Wingate’s emphatic response. “She believes in her father so utterly that it would cut her to the heart to think he was anything short of immaculate, that he had ever shared the weaknesses of ordinary men. You know all good women make idols of their male-folk. Now, tell me a little more about this person Boyle. Is he what we should call a gentleman?”

Smeaton shrugged his shoulders. “I have nothing but his own statement to go upon, you understand. But I should say you might have described him as such once. Now, he is broken down, slightly shabby, has got the ‘seen-better-days’ look, and is, I surmise, hard-up. You will see him, of course, and I give you this hint beforehand: I think he will want to borrow money. I’m sure he was within an ace of tapping me.”

“He can borrow what he likes, in reason, so long as I can keep him away from Chesterfield Street,” said Austin fervently.

Smeaton looked at him approvingly. He was a gallant young lover. No wonder that the girl’s heart had gone out to him in her loneliness and misery.

Wingate scribbled a brief but polite note to Boyle, inviting him to dinner the following day at a Bohemian club in Shaftesbury Avenue of which he was a member. In this tolerant atmosphere his guest’s eccentricities of manner and shabbiness of attire were less likely to provoke comment.

Having arranged this, he took his leave of Smeaton, whom he left cogitating over the new development of affairs.

The detective had no doubt in his own mind that Boyle, flighty and feather-brained as he seemed, could be level-headed on occasions. The story he told him about Lady Wrenwyck certainly bore the impress of truth, but it was impossible for a man of such peculiar mentality to avoid exaggeration. Before going further into the matter, he would like some corroboration. To whom could he apply?

And at once he thought of Mr Chesterton, the Prime Minister. He and Monkton were life-long friends, had been at Cambridge together. Although not actually “born in the purple,” having come from commercial stock, he had been adopted into society from his earliest youth. His rare eloquence and commanding gifts had done the rest, and raised him to his present high position.

An hour later he was closeted with the Premier in the big, heavily-furnished room at Downing Street.

Mr Chesterton received him with that easy and graceful cordiality which was one of his greatest charms.

“I have ventured to intrude upon your time, sir, with reference to the matter which is still baffling us – the mysterious disappearance of your colleague Mr Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. I have had a visit from a peculiar person who calls himself Caleb Boyle, and he has given me some information that may or may not prove valuable. He says he knew Mr Monkton intimately. I am aware that you were life-long friends. Do you happen to know anything of the man Boyle?”

An amused smile flitted over the Prime Minister’s features. “I remember him well, a harum-scarum, chattering, frothy fellow – utterly devoid of brains. Stay, I think perhaps I do him an injustice. I would rather say he suffered from an excess of brain – of the ill-balanced sort. So he has turned up again – eh? I thought he had disappeared for good.”

“I take it, from that remark, that he has had a somewhat chequered career?” queried Smeaton.

“Most chequered,” was Mr Chesterton’s reply. In a few brief sentences he gave the history of Caleb Boyle, so far as he had known it.

He was a man of good family, and possessed of some small fortune. These advantages were nullified by the possession of nearly every quality that made for failure in life. He was headstrong, prodigal, full of an overwhelming conceit in his own capacity. He dabbled a little in everything – and could do nothing well.

He fancied himself an orator, and spouted on politics till he bored everybody to death. Believed himself a poet, and wrote execrable verses. Flattered himself he was an artist of a high order, and painted daubs that moved his friends to mirth.

The Premier paused. Then proceeding, he said:

“He came to London after leaving Cambridge, and went the pace. In a few years he had run through his money. Then began the downward progress. He became a sponger and a leech, borrowed money in every likely quarter – cadged for his luncheons and dinners. He had been very generous and hospitable in his day, and his friends put up with him as long as they could. One by one, they fell away, wearied by his importunities. Then he came to the last stage – he took to drinking to excess. Through the influence of the stauncher of his acquaintance, who still pitied him, he had secured three or four good positions. One after another he had to relinquish them, owing to his intemperate habits. That was the actual finish. He disappeared from a world in which he had once held a very decent footing, and joined the great army of degenerates who live nobody knows where, and Heaven knows how.”

“I take it he is not speaking the truth when he says that he knew Mr Monkton intimately?” asked Smeaton, when Mr Chesterton had finished the brief narrative.

The Premier shrugged his shoulders. “We were all at Cambridge together. He knew Monkton and he knew me, in the way that undergraduates know each other. We met afterwards, occasionally, in some of the many sets that constitute Society. But I am sure that Monkton was never intimate with him. He was one of dozens of men that he had known at school and college. Boyle always built up his supposed friendships on very slender material. It used to be said that if he knocked against an Archbishop by accident, and begged his pardon, he would swear afterwards that he was on terms of intimacy with him.”

There was a pause before Smeaton put his next question.

“This man tells me that at one time there was a scandal about Mr Monkton and a certain Lady Wrenwyck – a woman of fashion and a noted beauty. I take the liberty of asking you to confirm or refute that.”

Mr Chesterton frowned slightly. “I take it, Mr Smeaton, you have a good reason for asking me this. But, frankly, I am not fond of raising old ghosts.”

Smeaton answered him a little stiffly. “In my calling, sir. we are often compelled to put inconvenient questions, but only when, in our judgment, they are absolutely necessary.”

“I accept your statement on that head, unreservedly, Mr Smeaton.” The frown cleared from the Premier’s brow, and his tone was marked with that fine courtesy which had secured him so many friends.

He paused a moment, drew a sigh, and resumed. “I will be quite frank with you, Smeaton. That chatterbox Boyle has told you the truth. He was not in our particular set, but of course the common rumours reached him. There was a scandal – a very considerable scandal. It distressed his friends greatly, especially those who, like myself, appreciated his exceptional talents, and predicted for him a great career.”

Again he paused. Then he resumed:

“I am glad to say our counsels and influence prevailed in the end. We weaned him from this fascinating lady – who fought very hard for him, I must tell you. In the end we won. A year later he married a very charming girl, who made him the best of wives, and to whom, I have every reason to believe, he was devotedly attached.”

Smeaton rose, and expressed his thanks for the candid way in which Mr Chesterton had treated him.

“One last question, sir, and I have done,” he said. “What would be the present age of this lady?”

“She is ten years or so Monkton’s junior, and looks ten years younger than that. At least, she did the last time I saw her, and that was a few months ago.”

As he walked across back to Scotland Yard, Smeaton turned it all over in his mind. Lady Wrenwyck was ten years younger than Monkton, and looked ten years younger than her real age. Therefore, without doubt, she was a beautiful and fascinating woman, and still dangerous.