It was an urgent request that my wife should proceed at once to the house of her brother George at Chiswick, as something unusual had happened. We had a brief consultation over the extraordinary message, and as it was late, and raining heavily, I decided to go in her stead.
An hour’s drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a time when the fêtes champètres at Devonshire House were attended by the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs nowadays.
Mabel’s brother had resided here with his wife and their two children for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a good deal of his time in his study.
It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me.
“Ah, Mr Harold!” he cried, on recognising me. “I’m glad you’ve come, sir. It’s a terrible night’s work that’s been done here.”
“What do you mean?” I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr Travers standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting an explanation.
“It’s horrible,” he replied. “I—I found poor George dead—murdered!”
“Murdered?” I echoed.
“Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery,” he said. “The detectives are now making their examination.”
As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was horror-stricken at the sight.