Мэри Элизабет Брэддон
Wyllard's Weird
CHAPTER V.
A FACE FROM THE GRAVE
A week passed. Julian Wyllard attended the sale at the Hôtel Drouot, bought three of the smaller gems of the Rochejaquelin gallery, and allowed the Raffaelle to pass into a national collection. His wife and he had gone about Paris and its environs in the mean while; Dora very happy in revisiting the spots she had admired in her youth.
The week had gone, and there had been no reply to Heathcote's advertisement. But there had been a letter from Joseph Distin.
"The last few days have not been entirely barren in results," he wrote. "Léonie Lemarque's handbag has been found at the Charing Cross Station; it was left in the waiting-room on the morning of the 5th July, immediately after the arrival of the mail train from Dover. The bag is now in my office. It contains some linen, marked L. L., slippers, brush, and comb; but not a document of any kind. Nothing to afford the slightest clue to the girl's business in London. The police have found a hansom-cabman who drove a tall, gentlemanlike man and a French girl from Charing Cross to Paddington Station on the morning of the 5th of July, in time for the Penzance train. They had no luggage. The cabman believes that he should recognise the man if he saw him again, but can give no clear description of his appearance, except that he was a fine-looking man in the prime of life. He talked French to the girl, and the cabman supposes him to have been a Frenchman. He and the girl appeared to be on very good terms. The cabman saw them go into the Paddington Station together, about five minutes before the starting of the train. The photograph of the dead girl has been shown to this cabman, and he has identified it as the likeness of the little French girl he drove in his cab."
This was all the progress that Joseph Distin's agents had made at present. The facts looked dark against the man who had taken Léonie Lemarque from station to station. If he had been innocent of all wrong in relation to that helpless stranger, surely he would have replied to the advertisement; he would have come forward to say what part he had taken in the history of Léonie Lemarque.
Heathcote stopped the first advertisement, and inserted a second worded thus:
"Monsieur Georges, who resided in Paris in the year '71, and for some years previously, or any friend of Monsieur Georges now residing in England, is earnestly requested to communicate with Messrs. Distin & Son, Solicitors, Furnival's Inn."
He had not much hope of getting a reply to this advertisement, after the failure of the previous appeal, but he thought it was well to advertise this name of Georges. Some insignificant person, some busybody who had known the man Georges at some period of his existence, might reply; and any information so obtained might form a link in the chain of that strange story of Marie Prévol and her mysterious lover.
Mysterious, Heathcote felt this man to have been, despite Trottier's idea that he was only a rich American who lived a Bohemian life as a matter of choice. It seemed to Heathcote as if there must have been some stronger ground than mere whim for an existence so secluded, so exceptional, spent in such a city as Paris, where the delight of the rich and the idle is to spend their days and nights before the eyes of an admiring crowd, and to have every movement and every caprice chronicled in the newspapers.
And this man had been in the prime of his manhood, good-looking, clever, brilliant, the lover of a beautiful actress. Hardly the kind of person to hide his light under a bushel, unless there was some strong motive for concealment.
What could that motive be? Heathcote wondered, as he brooded over the imperfect story of Marie Prévol and her niece. Was this Georges a swindler, who had come by his wealth in a criminal manner, and dared not show himself in the light of day? Was he one of the many tricksters and schemers of Paris, the birds of prey who live upon carrion, and who know themselves the scorn of their fellow-men? or had he a wife from whose jealous eye he was obliged to hide his devotion to Marie Prévol? Heathcote believed that there must have been some guilty reason for the life which shrank from the light of day.
He had been in Paris a fortnight, and he began to ask himself how long this investigation to which he had pledged himself was likely to last. At the beginning his progress had seemed rapid – triumphant almost. Starting from utter ignorance of the name and position of the dead girl, he had arrived in a few days at an exact knowledge of her name, surroundings, and past history. Yet he was constrained to confess to himself that, armed with all these facts, he was not one whit nearer to finding the man who had murdered her. Given this history of Léonie Lemarque's childhood and youth, it was still possible that Bothwell Grahame had thrown her out of the railway-carriage.
The man who took her in a hansom from Charing Cross to Paddington might have left her at the latter station. She might have gone alone upon her way towards Penzance, to encounter a villain on the road, and that villain might have been Bothwell Grahame. The thing was within the limits of possibility; though in Heathcote's present mood it seemed to him altogether unlikely. Yet firmly to establish the fact of Bothwell's innocence, he must find the man who was guilty.
It seemed to him that the man who met Léonie Lemarque at the station, who was known to have conducted her to another station, had in a measure condemned himself by his silence. If he had not been guiltily concerned in the girl's death, he would assuredly have replied to the advertisement. He would have been apprised by that advertisement that some evil had befallen Léonie Lemarque, and he would have been prompt to come forward and tell all he knew of the girl who had been sent to him for aid, a friendless orphan, a stranger in a strange land.
It seemed clear to Heathcote that Georges, the murderer, was still living, still in dread of the gallows; and that the girl who went to meet the friend of the murderer had fallen into a trap. The papers she carried were doubtless of a compromising character; the girl herself was the sole witness of the crime, the only living being who could recognise the murderer. Papers and witness had disappeared together.
Heathcote was fond of Paris. It was not irksome to him to stay there even in the dead season. He had the theatres for his evening amusement; he had two or three friends who had not fled to the mountain or the sea, and in whose drawing-rooms he was welcome. He had the National Library in the Rue Richelieu for his club; and he had the ever-varying life of the Boulevard for his recreation. Time therefore did not hang heavily on his hands; and he knew that while he watched and waited in Paris, Joseph Distin would not be idle in London. Every clue, were it the slightest, would be patiently followed by that expert investigator.
In his saunterings in the Rue de Rivoli and on the Boulevards Mr. Heathcote had hunted assiduously for a photograph of Marie Prévol; but so fleeting is the fame of beauty, which leaves nothing behind it save a tender memory, that for some time he had failed utterly in his quest. Her name was hardly remembered by the people who sold photographs. And yet twelve or thirteen years ago the portrait of Marie Prévol was in every shop-window. It had been sold by thousands, had adorned every album in Paris and Brussels, and had been hung over many a bachelor's mantelpiece, worshipped by half the beardless boys in France and Belgium.
At last Heathcote lighted upon an elderly shopman, who was a little more intelligent and had a much better memory than the men he had encountered hitherto. The man perfectly remembered Marie Prévol and her photographs.
"We had a photograph of her by Nadar," he said – "a portrait that was the rage. It was soon after her first appearance at the Porte Saint-Martin, and it was the costume in which she made her début. She was the Genius of Evil, in a black satin bodice and a black tulle skirt starred with gold. The close-fitting black bodice set off her graceful figure, and her superb shoulders, and her hair, which was positively magnificent, fell down her back in a horse's tail. It was like a stream of molten gold. I saw her in that character half a dozen times. All Paris rushed to see her, though she was never much of an actress. Her beauty made her famous all over Europe. We used to send her photographs to St. Petersburg. But there is a fashion in these things; and I daresay almost every one of those photographs has found its way to the rubbish-heap. If you call to-morrow I may be able to supply you with what you want; but I shall have to hunt over a good deal of our old stock to get at it."
"I shall be greatly obliged if you will do so," answered Heathcote. "I suppose Mademoiselle Prévol had the weakness of our lovely ladies in England, and was fond of being photographed."
"In the first year or so, when she began to be celebrated for her beauty, there were a good many different photographs of her – in this costume and in that; and, you know, in those fairy spectacles every handsome actress wears at least half a dozen costumes. But after that first year there were no more of Mademoiselle Prévol's photographs to be had for love or money. Our firm applied to her, offered her a liberal royalty – five sous upon every photograph – if she would sit to Nadar, in all her costumes, and give us the sole privilege of selling her portraits. But she declined. She was never going to sit again. She did not want herself vulgarised by having her portrait sold for a franc to every calicot in France. Our firm felt insulted by her reply, which was given to one of our principals, through an impertinent sempstress, who worked by the day for Mademoiselle Prévol, and who almost shut the door in our principal's nose. Our firm took the trouble to find out why Mademoiselle objected to the fame which photography can alone bestow upon beauty; and we discovered that there was a lover in the case – a mysterious lover; a man who kept himself curiously dark – "
"Stay!" exclaimed Heathcote. "I will give you a thousand francs for a photograph of that lover."
The shopman shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"A liberal offer, Monsieur, and a very safe one. Except that the man's name was Georges, I know nothing about him. The police would have given me twice as much as you offer, for his photograph, if I could have furnished them with one ten years ago, immediately after the murder of Marie Prévol."
And then the man proceeded to relate the story of the actress's death, and the impression which it made in Paris at the time. Heathcote listened, and affected ignorance: for, even in these recollections, there might be some detail to suggest a clue. There was nothing, however. The man told the story as it had been told in the newspapers, and as it was already known to Heathcote.
He went back to the shop on the following day, and the shopman showed him three different photographs of Marie Prévol.
Two were of the carte de visite size, in costume. They had both grown pale with age, and had an old-fashioned look. They were full-length portraits, showing the perfection of an exquisite figure, as displayed in the scanty drapery of a burlesque costume: a graceful girlish form, delicately fashioned, a perfect face, small refined features, a head crowned with masses of platted hair. But, in these small photographs, the soul was wanting. Beyond the one fact, that the original was exquisitely lovely, they revealed nothing.
The third was of cabinet size, and here the woman herself appeared. Here, in the face of the photograph, Edward Heathcote looked back across ten years, and saw the face of the living woman, the smile on the lips, the light in the eyes. It was a head vignetted, the head only, carelessly draped with a cloud of tulle, which framed the oval of the face and veiled the rich masses of hair. It was an exquisite face, eyes large and dark and dreamy, shadowed by long dark lashes, an expression of pensive tenderness about the perfect lips, the nose small and straight, the chin delicately moulded. It was not the bold bright beauty of an actress, accustomed to challenge the admiration of the vulgar crowd; it was a beauty instinct with tender womanly feeling, and serious thought, an essentially feminine loveliness; and its chief characteristic was purity. It would have been impossible to associate such loveliness with an evil life, a dissolute mind.
The colour of this larger photograph was almost as good as if it had been taken yesterday: the portrait had a living look, which struck Heathcote painfully. It was sad to think that lovely face had been lying in the dust for years – that the sweet smile in those eyes was nothing more than a memory.
He was to dine at the Windsor that evening – a farewell dinner, since Julian Wyllard talked of leaving Paris next morning. He wanted to take his wife to Switzerland, perhaps to the Italian lakes. Dora was pleased at the idea of revisiting the scenes in which her honeymoon had been spent. They seemed far away in a dim past, those days of early married life, when all the world was decked in the vivid hues of hope and gladness. Her union with Julian Wyllard had been a happy one, but there had been something wanting. That lonely old house at Penmorval chilled her sometimes, with its silent corridors, its empty rooms. It would have been so sweet to her to hear baby feet pattering along those corridors – baby voices – that glad childish treble, which is like the piping of young birds, in those spacious rooms. There were so many rooms, there was so much vacant space in the old house which only children could have filled. And now she told herself that the dream was past and done with. She felt as if she were growing old, and that somehow, she knew not how, she and her husband were further apart than they had been. It might be that the disappointment of a childless union was preying upon his mind – that he felt the burden of a great fortune for which he had toiled over-much in his youth, renouncing every social pleasure, friendship, love, all things, only to heap up wealth for which there should be no heir.
The dinner at the Windsor was bright and pleasant, albeit Heathcote was the only guest. Julian Wyllard was in excellent spirits, full of plans for making the most of the bright weather in Switzerland. Dora was pleased at his gaiety. She had been going about a good deal with him, revisiting all the places she had seen with her mother – the churches, the galleries, the law-courts, that brand-new Palais de Justice, so splendid, so imposing, so uninteresting. They had been to Versailles.
"Did you go to Saint-Germain?" asked Heathcote. "There is not much to see in the chateau where poor old James Stuart shed the light of exiled royalty; but the old town, and the terrace, and the forest are delightful."
"No; we did not go to Saint-Germain. We had arranged to go yesterday, but Julian mistook the time at which the train started, and we reached the station too late for the only train that would have suited us."
"You have never been to Saint-Germain?" asked Heathcote.
"O yes; I was there with my mother years ago," answered Dora. "We stayed at the Henri Quatre for a week. I have ridden and rambled all over the forest. I was charmed with the place. I should like to have gone there again with Julian."
"There may be time when we return from Switzerland," said her husband.
"Why not delay your journey for a day, and let us all go to Saint-Germain to-morrow?" said Heathcote. "Suppose you dine with me at the Henri Quatre. I have a morbid interest in that hotel, and in the forest."
"Indeed! But why?" asked Dora.
Instead of any verbal answer, Heathcote took from his pocket the photograph of Marie Prévol, and handed it to Mrs. Wyllard. She and her husband looked at it together. She had drawn closer to him after dinner, as they sat at the small round table, and now they were sitting side by side, like lovers.
There was a silence as they looked at the portrait.
"What an exquisite face!" exclaimed Dora at last. "I don't think I ever saw lovelier eyes or a sweeter expression. Who is the original? Do you know her?"
"She has been dead ten years. I never saw her," answered Heathcote gravely.
"But what has this portrait to do with your morbid interest in the forest of Saint-Germain?" asked Dora.
"It is the likeness of a woman who was cruelly murdered there just ten years ago. She was an actress known as Marie Prévol. The murder made a great sensation at the time. You must have heard of it, Mr. Wyllard; for I think you were a resident in Paris in '71?"
"I was a resident in Paris till '73. Yes, I perfectly remember the murder of Marie Prévol and her admirer. But it was one of those crimes which do not excite any deep or lasting interest. The case was too common, the motive too obvious. An outbreak of jealous fury on the part of a jilted lover. Had the murderer and his victims belonged to the working classes, society would scarcely have heard of the crime, certainly would have taken no notice of it. But because she was an actress and her admirer a man of fashion, there was a fuss."
"Then you do not consider such a murder interesting?" asked Heathcote.
"Assuredly not," replied Wyllard. "To be interesting a murder must be mysterious. Here there was no mystery."
"Pardon me. I think you must have forgotten the details of the story. There was a mystery, and a profound one; but that mystery was the character of the man Georges, who was known to have been Marie Prévol's devoted lover, and who was by some supposed to have been her husband."
"Ah, yes, I remember," answered Wyllard. "These things come back to one's mind as one discusses them. Georges was the name of the supposed murderer. He got off so cleverly as to baffle the keenest police in Europe."
"Did you know any thing of him?"
"Nothing. He was a nobody, I believe. A man of ample means, but of no social standing."
"His life was a social mystery; and it is in that mysterious existence that I find an interest surpassing anything I have hitherto met with in the history of crime."
"Really!" exclaimed Julian Wyllard, with something of a sneer in his tone. "I perceive you have begun the business of amateur detective on a large scale. I understood from Dora that you were coming to Paris solely with a view to finding out anything there was to be discovered about that poor little girl who tumbled off the viaduct, and whom, I think, you call Louise Lemarque."
"Léonie Lemarque. That was the girl's name. Léonie Lemarque's death is only the last link in a chain of events beginning with the murder of Marie Prévol."
Julian Wyllard started impatiently from his chair.
"My dear Heathcote, I thought you the most sensible man I ever met, but really this sounds like rank lunacy. What in Heaven's name can the murder at Saint-Germain ten years ago have to do with the death of that girl the other day?"
"Only this much. Léonie Lemarque was Marie Prévol's niece: and I have the strongest reason for believing that she went to London to meet the murderer of her aunt."
CHAPTER VI.
STRUCK DOWN
As Edward Heathcote uttered those words, the conviction of their truth flashed into his mind. In thoughtful days and wakeful nights this question as to the identity of the person who was to meet Léonie Lemarque at the railway-station had been a perplexity to him, the subject of many a new theory: and now it came upon him all at once that this assertion, which he had made on the spur of the moment, in the heat of argument, was the true solution of the mystery.
It was to Georges himself – her daughter's generous adoring lover, her daughter's suspected murderer – that Madame Lemarque had sent her granddaughter, as to one who, of all other men, would be most inclined to act generously to the orphan girl, were it only in remorse for his crime.
He tried to realise the thoughts of the lonely old woman, dying in penury, leaving her orphan grandchild to face the world without a friend. She would go over the list of those whom she had known in the past – those who were rich enough to be generous. Alas! how few there are who remain the friends of poverty! One man she had known of, although she had never seen him – rich, generous to lavishness. She had at one time believed him to be the murderer of her daughter. But it might be that she had afterwards modified her opinion, that she had received some communication from this Georges, that he had assured her of his innocence, that he had sent her money, had helped her to struggle on against adverse times, had helped her for a while, and then grown weary. And she, knowing the place of his exile, had, in her desperation, determined upon committing her grandchild to this man's care; rather than to the pitiless world of strange faces and careless hearts, the outside world, to which one helpless girl the more is but as one drop in the ocean of sorrowing humanity. She had sent Léonie Lemarque to meet this man, and the girl had recognised the murderer of her aunt.
And yet this could hardly be, since the cabman's evidence showed that Léonie had been on the best possible terms with the person in whose company she drove to Paddington Station.
After that speech of his, Edward Heathcote had no longer the power to withhold any details of his investigation from Julian Wyllard and his wife. He told them in fewest words all that he had discovered since he crossed the Channel.
Dora was intensely interested in the story. The passionate love and passionate jealousy were very human feelings that appealed to her womanly tenderness. She could not withhold her pity from the murderer.
"Strange that, in all your Parisian experience, you never met this Monsieur Georges," she said to her husband.
"Hardly, since I seldom went out in the evening; while this man was evidently a thorough Bohemian, who only began to live after midnight," answered Wyllard.
He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, his elbow on the table, his chin leaning on his hand, and that photograph of Marie Prévol lying before him. He was looking intently at it, perusing every lineament.
Presently he raised his eyes, slowly, thoughtfully, from the photograph to the face of his wife.
"Yes," said Heathcote, "I know what you are thinking. There is a likeness. It struck me this evening when I came into this room. There is a curious likeness between the face of the living and the dead."
That morning, on studying the countenance in the photograph, Heathcote had been perplexed – worried, even – by a sense of familiarity in that face of the dead. It smiled at him as a face he had known of old – a face out of the past. Yet it was only in the evening, when he came into the salon at the Windsor, and Mrs. Wyllard turned towards him in the lamplight, that he knew what the likeness meant. It was not an obvious or striking likeness. The resemblance was rather in expression than in feature, but one face recalled the other.
"Yes, there is a likeness," said Wyllard coldly, passing the photograph back to its owner, who rose to take leave, just as the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.
"I shall look in to-morrow, and see if you are inclined for an afternoon at Saint-Germain," he said, as he shook hands with Dora.
"You are very kind," she said, "but your invitation is no longer tempting. You have spoiled my interest in that sweet old place. I shall always think of it as the scene of Marie Prévol's death."
"But surely that is an additional charm," said Wyllard mockingly. "If you are gifted with Mr. Heathcote's detective temper – the genius of the heaven-born police-officer – Saint-Germain will be all the more interesting to you on account of a double murder – and perhaps a suicide into the bargain; for it is not unlikely that the murderer's bones are mouldering in some gravel-pit."
"You forget Drubarde's story of the travelling-cap," said Heathcote.
"That was a shrewd hypothesis on your ex-police-officer's part, but it is by no means conclusive evidence," answered Wyllard.
Heathcote called at the Windsor upon the following afternoon, to inquire if Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard had left for Switzerland. He was shocked to hear that Mr. Wyllard had been taken seriously ill in the night, and that there had been two medical men with him that morning. Madame was terribly distressed, the waiter told him, but she bore up admirably.
Heathcote sent in his name, and was at once admitted to the salon, where Dora came to him after the briefest delay.
She was very pale, and there were signs of terror, and of grief in her countenance.
"I am glad you have come," she faltered. "I should have sent for you, only – " she hesitated, and stopped, with tears in her eyes, feeling that in another moment she might have said too much. He was her oldest friend, the man to whom her thoughts turned naturally in the hour of trouble, the man whom, of all others, she most trusted; but he was her old lover also, and she felt that never again could she dare to appeal to his friendship as she had done for Bothwell's sake.
"Is there anything very serious?" he asked.
"Yes, it is very serious. Paralysis. Only a slight attack, the doctors say. But there are signs of a physical decay which may end fatally – an overworked nervous system, the English physician says. And yet his life has been so easy, so placid, for the last seven years."
"No doubt; but his life in this city was a life of excitement and anxiety, the fever of the race for wealth. He is suffering now, most likely, for the high pressure of that period. Is his mind affected by the shock?"
"Not in the least. His mind was never clearer than it has been to-day."
"When did the illness begin?"
"Early this morning, five hours after you left us. We sat up till nearly one o'clock, talking of our trip to Switzerland and Italy. Julian was in wonderful spirits. I have never known him more cheerful. He planned a tour that would last all through the winter, as I told him. It was one o'clock when I went to bed, and I left him sitting in his dressing-room, reading. The door was half open, and I could see him, as he sat by the table, in the bright light of the lamp. I had slept for hours, as it seemed to me, when I was awakened by hearing my name called in a strange voice. I sprang out of bed; frightened by that unknown voice, and then I heard the name again, and knew all at once that it was Julian's voice, only altered beyond recognition. I rushed to him. He had sunk back into his armchair. I asked him what was the matter, and he told me that he could not move. There was numbness in all his limbs. His arms were as heavy as lead. I seized his hand and found it deadly cold. I rang the bell with all my might, and at last one of the women-servants came to my help. She roused the porter, and sent him to fetch a doctor. It was not quite four o'clock when she came to me, but it was past five o'clock before the doctor arrived. He told me at once that my husband had had a paralytic shock, and he helped me to get him to bed, while the porter went in search of a nurse. I wanted to have nursed Julian myself, without the help of any stranger, whose presence might worry him: but the doctor said that would be impossible. I must have a skilled nurse in attendance. There would be plenty for me to do in helping her, he said. So I submitted, and the nurse was with us in less than an hour – a nursing-sister of the order of St. Vincent de Paul, a very nice person."
"Is your doctor a clever man?"
"The Frenchman who came in the morning seems clever; and, at my request, he brought Dr. Danvers, an English physician. I am told he is the best English doctor in Paris. They are both of the same opinion as to the nature of the attack; but Dr. Danvers is inclined to look upon it more seriously than the French doctor. He declared that Julian's brain must have been frightfully overworked within the last few years; and when I told him that my husband's life had, to my knowledge, been one of rest and tranquil monotony, I could see by his face that he did not believe me."
"Mr. Wyllard is better, I hope, since the morning."
"Yes, he is much better. There is still a feeling of heaviness and dull pain; but he is so patient, he will hardly confess he is in pain, though I can see from his face that he suffers."
The tears rushed to her eyes, and she walked hastily to the window, where she stood for a few minutes holding her handkerchief before her face, with her back to Heathcote, who waited silently, knowing the uselessness of all consolatory speeches at such a time.
She conquered herself, and came back to her seat presently.
"Struck down in the prime of his manhood, in all the force of his intellect," she said. "It is a deathblow."
"Your English doctor may exaggerate the danger."
"God grant that it is so. I have telegraphed to Sir William Spencer, entreating him to come to Paris by to-night's mail. The question of cost is nothing; but I fear he may not be able to leave his practice so long – or he may be away from London."
"When did you telegraph?"
"An hour ago. I am expecting the answer at any moment. I hope he will come."
"What is it this Dr. Danvers apprehends?"
"He fears an affection of the spinal marrow, a slow and lingering malady, full of pain. O, it is too dreadful!" cried the agonised wife, clasping her hands in a paroxysm of despair. "What has he done to be so afflicted? how has he deserved such suffering, he who worked so hard, and denied himself all pleasures in his youth – he who has been so good and generous to others? Why should he be tortured?"
"Dear Mrs. Wyllard, pray do not give way to grief. The doctor may be mistaken. He ought not to have told you so much."
"It was right of him to tell me. I begged him to keep nothing from me – not to treat me as a child. If there is a martyrdom to be borne, I will bear my part of it. Yes, I will suffer with him, pang for pang, for to see him in pain will be as sharp an agony for me as the actual torture can be for him. He is resting now, dozing from the effect of the morphia which they have injected under the skin."
