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

Had he cared to question the Prime Minister more closely, he could have gleaned more information about the Wrenwyck household. But Mr Chesterton was obviously disinclined to raise “old ghosts,” as he called them. He would obtain what he wanted by other methods.

He hunted up Lord Wrenwyck in the peerage, and found him to be a person of some importance, who possessed three houses in the country, and lived in Park Lane. He was also twelfth Baron.

Smeaton summoned one of his subordinates, a promising young fellow, keen at this particular kind of work, and showed him the page in the peerage.

“I want you to find out as quickly as possible all you can about this family. You understand, Johnson – every detail you can pick up.”

Detective-sergeant Johnson, qualifying for promotion, smiled at his chief and gave him his assurance.

“I’ve had more difficult jobs, and perhaps a few easier ones, Mr Smeaton. I’ll get on it at once, and I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he said.

Mr Johnson omitted to mention, with a reticence that must be commended, that a cousin of his was a footman next door to the Wrenwyck establishment, and accustomed to look in of an evening at a select hostelry adjacent to Park Lane.

That same evening – for Johnson’s methods were swift and sure – he waited on his chief at Smeaton’s house, with an unmistakable air of triumph on his usually impassive features.

“I have got up some facts, sir. I will read you from my notes. Lady Wrenwyck was a girl when she married; her husband some twenty years older. She was forced into the marriage by her parents, who were of good family, but poor as church mice. Her ladyship was a beautiful girl, she soon went the pace, and had heaps of admirers, young and old. The husband, horribly jealous, thought he had bought her with his money. Terrible scenes between the pair, in which her ladyship held her own.”

Smeaton offered the subordinate his rare meed of praise. “You have done devilish well, Johnson. Go on.”

Sergeant Johnson proceeded, refreshing himself from his notes. “For several years past they have lived in a sort of armed truce. They live together, that is to say, in the same house, but they never exchange a word with each other, except before guests. If they have to hold communication, it is by means of notes, conveyed through the valet and the lady’s maid.”

“An extraordinary house, Johnson – eh?” interjected Smeaton, thinking of his own little comfortable household.

“It’s a bit funny, sir, to ordinary people, but in Society nothing is uncommon,” replied Johnson. “Shall I go on with my notes?”

“Please do,” said Smeaton cordially. Johnson was of the younger generation, but he was shaping well. Perhaps it is possible that youngsters have a wider outlook than their elders.

Mr Johnson read on, in a deferential voice:

“His lordship is an invalid – suffers from some affection of the joints, an aggravated form of rheumatism, walks with a stick. Has been absent from Park Lane for a little time. Nobody knows where he is. His confidential man of business, steward or secretary or something, runs the house in his absence.”

“And her ladyship?” queried Smeaton eagerly.

“I’m coming to that, sir. Her ladyship has been away for some time; travelling abroad they think. My informant gave me the date of her departure. Here it is, sir.”

Smeaton looked at the little pencilled note. He rose, and shook his subordinate cordially by the hand, saying:

“Really you’ve done more than well. You forget nothing, I see. I shall watch your career with great interest. If I can push you I will. You may rely on that.”

Johnson bowed low at the great man’s praise. “A word here from you, Mr Smeaton, and I’m made in the Service.”

His voice faltered skilfully here, and he withdrew, leaving Smeaton to his reflections.

The great detective meditated long and carefully. He was not a person to jump hastily at conclusions. He sifted the actual from the obvious.

One fact emerged clearly, and it was this: Lady Wrenwyck had left her home, to which she had not returned, two days before the mysterious disappearance of Reginald Monkton —two days.

That feather-headed fool, Caleb Boyle, had told him to “find the woman.” Was the feather-headed fool right, and he, Smeaton, upon the wrong road?

Chapter Twenty One.

Shades of Soho

Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle, accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic flourish. “Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle.”

It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes, brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home.

He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put it into execution.

She sprang up when he entered, and the light in her beautiful eyes, the faint flush on her cheek, told him that he was welcome. The soft lips returned his fervent kiss.

“We are going to take a holiday, darling,” he cried gaily. “This is a perfect day; it’s a shame to be stifled in London. We will run down by train to Shepperton. I’ll get a boat and pull you to Hampton Court. We’ll lunch there, and afterwards stroll round the gardens. Then I will bring you back home, I wonder if you remember that day – it seems such a little while ago – when we first met?”

“Shall I ever forget it?” she whispered softly. “I think, perhaps, I fell a little bit in love with you then. And afterwards we met at Hendon, and you came to call on us at Chesterfield Street. And my dear father took a great fancy to you. And now – ” she looked at him shyly, and did not finish the sentence.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. “And now, my darling, we are sweethearts for ever and ever.”

A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness. For that brief space she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious fulness of her youth, living and beloved.

Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments.

As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days.

They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do so.

“You will be sure to come to-morrow?” she said, as she kissed him good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from her.

“Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?” he whispered as they parted.

“Oh! so much,” she answered with a sweet smile. “Didn’t I tell you this morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so close. We were all the world to each other.”

He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must never be pierced by doubts of her father’s rectitude.

Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle’s ready assurance was not in the least dashed by these circumstances. He advanced with outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner.

“I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian club. I ought to have told you.”

Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he would have assumed it in any case.

They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally.

“It is some years since I entered these portals,” he remarked in his pompous, affected manner. “I used to know some good fellows in the old days.”

He named Jimmy this, Dicky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the majority.

“I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London career,” he explained. “I was a member of the Garrick, and at the Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days could come again.”

He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had economised in the matter of lunch.