The Charing Cross Mystery

Hetherwick had dined that evening with friends who lived in Cadogan Gardens, and had stayed so late in conversation with his host that midnight had come before he left and set out for his bachelor chambers in the Temple; it was, indeed, by the fraction of a second that he caught the last eastbound train at Sloane Square. The train was almost destitute of passengers; the car which he himself entered, a first-class smoking compartment, was otherwise empty; no one came into it when the train reached Victoria. But at St. James’s Park two men got in, and seated themselves opposite to Hetherwick.

Now Hetherwick was a young barrister, going in for criminal practice, in whom the observant faculty was deeply implanted; it was natural to him to watch and to speculate on anything he saw. Because of this, and perhaps because he had just then nothing else to think about, he sat observing the newcomers; he found interest, amusement, and not a little profit in this sort of thing, and in trying to decide whether a given man was this, that, or something else.

Of the two men thus under inspection, the elder was a big, burly, fresh-coloured man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age.

“This!” answered Hudson with a knowing look. “Maybe I’m a noticing sort of chap⁠—anyhow, there was a thing I always noticed about Mrs. Whittingham. Wherever she was, and no matter how she was dressed, whether it was in her going-out things or her dinner finery, she always wore a band of black velvet round her right forearm, just above the wrist, where women wear bracelets. In fact, it was a sort of bracelet, a strip, as I say, of black velvet, happen about two inches wide, and on the front a cameo ornament, the size of a shilling, white stone or something of that sort, with one of these heathen figures carved on it. There were other folk about the place noticed that black velvet band, too⁠—I tell you she was never seen without it; the chambermaids said she slept with it on. But on the occasion I’m telling you about, when I went up to her room with a telegram, I caught her without it. She opened her door to see who knocked⁠—she was in a dressing-gown, going to change for dinner, I reckon, and she held out her right hand for what I’d brought her. The black velvet band wasn’t on it, and for just a second like I saw what was on her arm!”

“Yes?” said Hollis. “Something⁠—remarkable?”

We have lunch at the Home, and we’re generally busy until four or five o’clock. Got all that?”

“Every scrap!” replied Hetherwick. “Perfectly plain.”

“Very well,” continued Rhona. “One more detail, however. A good many people, chiefly medical men and folk interested in homes and hospitals, call, wanting to look over and to know about the place⁠—which, I may tell you in parenthesis, costs Lady Riversreade a pretty tidy penny! Mitchell’s instructions as regards all callers are to bring their cards to me⁠—I interview them first; if I can deal with them, I do; if I think it necessary or desirable, I take them in to Lady Riversreade. We have to sort them out⁠—some, I am sure, come out of mere idle curiosity; in fact, the only visitors we want to see there are either medical men who have a genuine interest in the place and can do something for it, or people who are connected with its particular inmates. Well, on Friday morning last, about a quarter to twelve, as I was busy with my letters, I heard a car come up the drive, and presently Mitchell came into my room with a card bearing the name ‘Dr. Cyprian Baseverie.’ Instead of being an engraved card as, by all the recognised standards, it should have been, it was a printed card⁠—that was the first thing I noticed.”

“Your powers of observation,” remarked Hetherwick admiringly, “are excellent, and should prove most useful.”

“Thank you for the compliment!⁠—but that didn’t need much observation,” retorted Rhona with a laugh. “It was obvious. However, I asked Mitchell what Dr. Baseverie wanted; Mitchell replied that the gentleman desired an interview with Lady Riversreade.

“It wasn’t long before I was there, Mr. Matherfield,” said Rhona. “I was, of course, tremendously curious to know what was going on there, but the door fits closely, and I heard nothing⁠—no angry voices or anything. However, in less than ten minutes the bell rang sharply. I called Mitchell⁠—he’s a big, strapping, very determined-looking ex-Guardsman⁠—and in we went. I took everything in at a glance, Major Penteney sat at Lady Riversreade’s desk. On the blotting-pad, his right hand close to it, lay a revolver⁠—”

“Hah!” exclaimed Matherfield. “To be sure! Just so! Fine!”

“Opposite the desk stood Baseverie, staring first at Major Penteney, then at us. It’s difficult for me to describe how he looked. I think the principal expression on his face was one of intense surprise.”

“Surprise?” ejaculated Hetherwick.

“Surprise! Astonishment! He looked like a man who had just heard something that he has believed it impossible to hear. But there was also such a look of anger and rage⁠—well, if Major Penteney hadn’t had that revolver close to his finger-ends, and if Mitchell hadn’t been there, I should have screamed and run. However, it was not I who was to do the running. As soon as Mitchell and I entered, Major Penteney spoke⁠—very quietly. He nodded at Baseverie. ‘Miss Featherstone and you, Mitchell⁠—you see this man? If ever he comes here again, you, Mitchell, will deny him entrance, and you, Miss Featherstone, on hearing from Mitchell that he’s here, will telephone for the police and, if he hangs about, will give him in charge.’ Then he turned to Baseverie.

Some fifty minutes later, the big, powerful car, which Penteney had commissioned in Kingsway, dashed up to Riversreade Court. Hetherwick found that there had been no exaggeration in Lady Riversreade’s telephone message. She herself came hurrying out to meet them; there were men standing about the terrace outside and others visible in the park; a couple of uniformed policemen followed Lady Riversreade from her study, where Hetherwick supposed her to have been in consultation with them. And her first glance was directed on Hetherwick himself; she addressed him before Penteney could go through any hurried introduction.

“I’ve seen you before!” she exclaimed abruptly. “You were with my secretary, Miss Featherstone, at Victoria, Sunday morning. Are you engaged to her?”

“No!” replied Hetherwick. “But we are close friends.”

“Well, Miss Featherstone’s been run away with⁠—and so has my sister, Madame Listorelle,” continued Lady Riversreade. “That’s the long and short of it! You seemed almost incredulous when I rang you up,” she continued, turning to Penteney, “but there’s no doubt about it⁠—they’ve been kidnapped, under my very windows. And we haven’t a single clue, a trace of any sort.”

“So far, you mean,” answered Penteney coolly. “But come⁠—but let me hear all about it. What are the details?”

“Details!” exclaimed Lady Riversreade. “We don’t know any details! All I know is this⁠—my sister came here from Hampshire yesterday evening, to stay a few days.