CHAPTER V
Considering the amount of brandy that I had consumed, I awoke next morning feeling remarkably well. The first thing that met my eyes was the canopy of the bed. I stared at it in a kind of vague surprise, wondering how on earth it had got there. Then, with a sudden shock, the events of the previous evening came racing back into my mind. I realised that I was in Northcote's bedroom, and that someone was knocking gently but persistently at the door.
Jumping out, I thrust my feet into a pair of slippers that lay on the white sheepskin rug, and, crossing the room, unlocked the door. I expected to find Milford, but in place of that obliging retainer I was confronted by a pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in a print costume and cap. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some letters on it.
"Oh, come in," I said, seeing that she was hesitating. Then, kicking off my slippers, I clambered back into bed.
She came across and laid the tray down on the table beside me.
"I have brought you up your tea, sir," she said. "Mr. Milford is not at all well this morning."
"Oh!" I replied. "I'm sorry for that. What's the matter with him? He was all right last night."
She shook her head. "I don't know, sir; but he seems very poorly."
"Is he in pain?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. He seems to be suffering a great deal."
"Well, you'd better send for the doctor at once," I said, pouring myself out some tea.
This was distinctly awkward. I certainly didn't want to be deprived of the services of the one person Northcote had told me I could trust.
"Shall I send for Dr. Ritchie, sir?" asked the maid.
I nodded. "Ask him to come round as soon as he can. I'll look in and see Milford after breakfast."
The girl finished her various duties in the room, and then withdrew. When she had gone I sat up in bed and began to examine the small pile of letters which lay on the tray. Most of them were obviously bills and circulars, but one which bore a crest on the back of the envelope seemed of more importance. I tore it open.
"105 BELGRAVE SQUARE, S.W.
"MY DEAR NORTHCOTE,—I had an interview yesterday with Rosedale, and as far as I can see, everything is plain sailing. Rosedale suggests the first week in October for launching the Company. There are one or two matters still I should like to discuss with you, but we shall have an opportunity on Wednesday night.
"By the way, I've taken your advice and bought the Seagull. Morton wanted a devilish stiff price for her, but he was ready to take something on account. He'll have to wait for the rest till the Company's out!—Yours sincerely, SANGATTE."
When I came to the ill-written, sprawling signature, I whistled gently to myself. Stranger as I was to England, I knew Lord Sangatte very well indeed by reputation. And a pretty unsavoury reputation it was, too.
I reached out for Northcote's notebook, which I had taken out of my pocket the night before, and turned up his engagements for Wednesday. There were two or three cryptic references to appointments in the morning and afternoon, and then, scribbled in at the end in pencil, "Sangatte's dance."
"I shall certainly be there," I said to myself complacently.
That Sangatte and Northcote were promoting a Company was an interesting bit of information. As a commercial undertaking it should be out of the common. If rumour was correct, Sangatte was about as ripe a scoundrel as the English Peerage could show; while such knowledge of Northcote as I possessed scarcely led me to believe that over-scrupulousness was one of his besetting virtues. On the whole, Wednesday night promised to be quite entertaining.
I got up leisurely, feeling very well satisfied with myself. In the sunshine, which was streaming pleasantly in through the open window, my adventure wore a much more cheerful and convincing aspect than it had done on the previous night. All my nervousness seemed to have vanished—in place of it I only felt a mischievous and highly enjoyable curiosity as to what would happen next.
Routing out Northcote's plan of the house, I discovered that the bathroom was three doors down, on the right-hand side of the passage. A proper full-length bath was a luxury to which I had not been introduced since my arrival in England, so with pleasurable anticipation I draped myself in Northcote's dressing-gown and set off along the corridor.
I found the bath already filled with warm water, while shaving materials of every kind were laid out on the table at the end of the room. With delightful deliberation I dallied over my toilet, smoking a cigarette and enjoying myself to the very limit of my ability. Then, refreshed and contented, I sauntered back to my bedroom, looking forward to the entertaining occupation of inspecting Northcote's wardrobe.
It proved to be on the same spacious scale as the rest of his belongings. After careful consideration, I selected a well-cut blue serge suit and a pair of Dobbie's brown boots, polished to a harmonious but unobtrusive richness that bore testimony to Milford's professional abilities.
Thus equipped, I strolled leisurely downstairs to the dining-room.
Breakfast was laid for me at the end of the big table, a pleasing combination of gleaming silver, fresh-cut flowers, and spotless napery. After the crude service of my lodgings, the sight of these unwonted accessories gave me a really enviable appetite.
I had just seated myself, when the girl who had called me came noiselessly into the room, carrying several dishes and a fragrant urn of coffee.
"Dr. Ritchie is coming round as soon as possible, sir," she said, putting down the tray and beginning to arrange its various contents in front of me.
"That's all right," I returned. "I'll look in and see Milford as soon as I've finished."
For an agreeable half-hour I lingered over a couple of kidneys, a delicious piece of omelette, some toast and marmalade, and a large slice of hot-house melon. Then, with a faint sigh, I extracted a Cabana from a box on the sideboard and moved myself into one of the big easy-chairs in the window looking out over the Park.
A breakfast such as I had eaten is particularly conducive to meditation, and it was scarcely surprising that my thought turned at once to the spirited events of the previous evening. Through the curling smoke of my cigar the beautiful, sorrowful face of my amazing visitor seemed to rise up again before my eyes. I repeated her name to myself with a kind of luxurious enjoyment. "Mercia Solano."
It fitted her admirably. A name of music and colour, shot through with a certain indefinite sadness.
Who could she be, and what red chapter in Northcote's past had led up to the events of last night? That he had not this girl only to fear was evident from her own words. Besides, I could not imagine Northcote running away from a woman, however foully he had wronged her.
I racked my memory for any clues which last evening's adventure might suggest. There was her reference to Guarez—whoever Guarez might be. I wondered again whether he was the gentleman who had been skulking under the trees opposite, and if so, why he had not taken such a favorable chance of putting a bullet into me? And what was that complimentary term she had called me? The Satyr of something or other—Culebra, if I remembered right.
Where the devil was Culebra? The name seemed to be familiar to me, but, think as I would, I was quite unable to place it. The only thing I felt certain about was that it was somewhere or other in South America.
I began to wonder if the key to the mystery lay there. The names Guarez and Solano certainly suggested that troubled continent, while the abrupt end of Mercia's father also seemed thoroughly in keeping with the same cheerful environment. I decided that I would hunt up Culebra on the map without any waste of time.
I had reached this point in my meditations when there came a knock at the door, and my nice-looking parlour-maid again entered.
"I wonder, sir," she began apologetically, "whether you would care to see Mr. Milford now. He seems a little better for the moment, so I thought, perhaps—"
"You were quite right," I interrupted, getting up from the chair and putting down my cigar. "I'll come with you at once."
I felt rather ashamed of myself, but for the time poor Milford's sudden illness had gone clean out of my head.
I followed her through the door at the back of the hall, and then down a big, winding stone staircase that led to the basement. Milford's room was in front, just under the dining-room.
When I entered I found him sitting propped up in bed. He was breathing with evident difficulty, and his face, which was a nasty grey colour, was covered with small beads of perspiration.
"Hullo, Milford," I said, "what have you been doing to yourself?"
He gave me a wan smile. "I don't know, sir," he answered feebly. "I felt rather queer last night, sir, and when I woke up this morning I was like this."
I felt his pulse, which was about as faint and irregular as a pulse could very well be.
"Dr. Ritchie's coming round to see you in a minute," I said, with assumed cheerfulness. "He'll tell us what's the matter. I don't suppose it's anything very serious. Do you think you ate something that upset you yesterday?"
He shook his head. "No, sir. I had my dinner here, and after that all I took was my usual glass of beer at the Granville, round the corner. I don't think it can be anything—" A sudden spasm of pain contracted his face, cutting short his words.
"Well, you must lie quite still," I said soothingly, "and not worry about anything. We can rub along all right; if necessary, I'll get someone else in to help. All you've got to think about is getting fit again."
He looked up, a flash of gratitude lighting his suffering face.
"Thank you, sir," he said faintly.
As he spoke, there came a sharp ring at the front-door bell.
"I expect this is Ritchie," I said. "Now we shall find out what the trouble is."
It was not the doctor, however, that the girl announced when she came into the room a minute later.
"If you please, sir," she said, "Mr. Furnivall has called. I have shown him into the dining-room."
For a moment I wondered who the deuce this new visitor might be; then I suddenly remembered that "Maurice Furnivall" was the name of Northcote's cousin, about whose good faith my double seemed to cherish certain dark suspicions.
"Very well," I said, "I'll come up. If Dr. Ritchie calls while Mr. Furnivall is here, ask him to look in before he goes."
I mounted the stairs again, feeling just a little apprehensive about the approaching interview. I was still too new to my position to have complete confidence in my likeness to Northcote, amazingly successful as it had been up to now; and, with the possible exception of Milford, Maurice Furnivall seemed the most likely person to detect any shade of difference. However, this feeling lent a spice to the situation, and when I entered the dining-room it was with a certain sense of amused elation.
I took an immediate dislike to Master Maurice the moment I set eyes on him. A tall, sleek, well-groomed young gentleman, with black hair carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on each side, he was lounging comfortably in the arm-chair which I had lately vacated.
"Hullo," he drawled, "you're uncommon early this morning. What's up?"
"Milford's seedy," I said a little curtly.
"What's the matter with the fellow?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I've just sent for Ritchie."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're doing him in style. A Harley Street specialist for a butler sounds all right. I should have called in someone a bit cheaper."
"I've no doubt you would," I said.
Something in my tone must have warned him that I was not feeling particularly amiable, for a distinct change came over his manner.
"I was only joking," he said a little lamely. "I'm sorry the poor fellow's off colour. A beastly nuisance for you, too."
I felt a strong desire to kick him, but my promise to Northcote restrained me.
"Yes," I said, "it's rather a bother. Have a cigar?"
He helped himself from the box which I held out.
"Any news?" he inquired.
I don't know why—he said it quite naturally—but it suddenly flashed across my mind that under this apparently innocent question there lurked a considerable amount of meaning. Could it be possible, I reflected rapidly, that he knew something about Mercia's midnight visit? It seemed wildly unlikely, but I made up my mind to test him.
"Yes," I said coolly. "I had rather a curious experience last night."
I was watching him as I spoke, and I could have sworn I noticed a slight tightening of the muscles in his face.
"Really?" he drawled. "What was that?"
I laughed lightly. "On second thoughts," I said, "perhaps I ought to keep it to myself for the present."
If he was really disappointed, he concealed it admirably. "That's just like you," he said, with a yawn; "you're always so confoundedly mysterious. I suppose it's the result of living under a wrong name."
This was news indeed, but I flatter myself I received it with admirable composure.
"I expect it is," I answered, selecting another cigar in place of the one I had discarded.
There was a brief pause in the conversation.
"Well, what about coming down to Ashton?" said Maurice, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.
I remembered Northcote's advice that I should refuse, but some obstinate streak at the back of my nature suddenly asserted itself. I think perhaps it was a feeling that Northcote's suspicions concerning the sleek young man in front of me were based on very good grounds that really decided me. I don't like running away from danger.
"When do you expect me?" I inquired carelessly.
Something very like a momentary flash of triumph leaped into his eyes.
"How about Thursday?" he suggested. "There's a good train from Liverpool Street at 2.30, and I'll meet you at Woodford."
"Thursday would do all right," I said.
"We shall have a pretty festive crowd," he went on, knocking some ash off his coat. "Sangatte and York have both promised to come, and I think George Vane will most likely turn up. And then, of course, there'll be the Baradells." He looked at me with a sort of sly half-grin as he mentioned the latter name. Evidently my acquaintance with the Baradells had some special significance.
"That sounds tolerable," I said.
"At all events," he finished, "we ought to have some decent shooting. Reece tells me that the partridges are good, and there are always plenty of duck about."
I nodded thoughtfully. It struck me that if there was going to be any shooting I should be devilish careful whom I stood next.
I had just arrived at this sound conclusion when, through the open window, I saw a beautifully appointed limousine car glide up to the door.
"Here's Ritchie," I said. "I'll just see what he's got to say."
Maurice made no attempt to rise. "Right you are," he answered languidly. "I'll wait and hear the verdict."
I again felt a rich desire to box his ears, but, consoling myself with the reflection that it was possibly only a pleasure delayed, I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I met the doctor in the hall. A grey-haired, clean-shaven man of about fifty, with a pompous but rather kind face, he came forward at once and shook my hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said. "I'm sorry to hear your butler's ill. A most excellent fellow, I should think."
"Yes," I said; "Milford is by way of being rather a treasure. Come along down and have a look at him, doctor. I'm afraid he's really bad."
I led the way down the stone staircase, and we entered the room together.
If anything, Milford looked worse than when I had seen him before. There were mottled patches on his grey face and his lips were twisted with pain. When he saw us, however, he made a faint effort to raise himself in bed.
Ritchie stepped forward at once. "No, no," he said kindly; "you must lie quite still."
Then, pulling up a chair, he began to ask a few curt questions, at the same time taking a brief examination of his patient's eyes and pulse. His face was rather grave.
"I am afraid you have eaten something that has disagreed with you very badly," he said at last.
Milford lay back on the pillow, his lips twitching faintly.
"Am I going to die, sir?" he whispered.
"Oh, dear, no," said Ritchie, with an encouraging smile. "We shall have you perfectly well in a week or so. Just for the moment, however, you'll have to keep very still and do exactly what you're told. I shall send you round a nurse at once, and look you up again myself this afternoon."
Milford made a feeble motion as if to protest against this luxury.
"That's all right, Milford," I said. "You are to do just what the doctor tells you, and not bother your head about anything."
He thanked me with a faint smile, and after tucking him up in bed, we left the room.
As soon as we were in the passage, I turned to Ritchie.
"Well," I said, "what's the matter?"
There was a short silence.
"The matter," said Ritchie, very quietly, "is that the man has been poisoned."