The Hangman's Knot

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”-4

Bascoigne bowed ironically. “Myself first, then gentlemen,” he said. “Once Convict Bascoigne, and now Sheldon Brown, Esq., of The Pines, Crowborough, and 25 Charles Street, Mayfair. A Justice of the Peace for the county of Sussex, and the well-known philanthropist who gave £50,000 to the London Hospital last year. Next,”—and he turned to the last speaker—“Sir Charles Carrion, Baronet, of 47 Harley Street, the one-time eminent surgeon with all England at his feet. Three years incarceration in a private lunatic asylum, however, has somewhat detracted from his professional popularity, and his practice may now be considered small.”

A look of rage came into the face of Sir Charles. “I was only certified by my rivals,” he snarled savagely, “and whatever I am now, I was perfectly sane then. It was a vile conspiracy hatched to get me out of the way. Hell! I'd join hands with the devil himself to get my revenge.”

Bascoigne smiled and went on. “But Sir Charles's activities are by no means confined to his practice in Harley Street, for he runs an unregistered vivisection laboratory in his commodious residence at Hampstead. He has been refused any sort of licence by the authorities, but nevertheless operates, and without anaesthetics, too. He has a private burial ground in the large garden surrounding his house, and if I am not very much mistaken,” here he pretended to cough apologetically, “bodies have been buried there that are not only those of dumb animals. Three months ago, he had some sort of disagreement with his butler, who was threatening to report the vivisections to the authorities, and the next day the butler disappeared. The man was supposed to have left the district, but I am of opinion that he never went far away and if a certain spot behind a big elm tree were dug over——”

“Nothing would be found,” broke in Sir Charles with a contemptuous smile. “The precautions I took were——”

“But the purchase of such a large quantity of chemicals would have to be explained,” interrupted Bascoigne sharply, “and you seem not to be aware that your butler had four gold crowns, and was wearing artificial teeth set upon a platinum plate.” He looked amused. “Now, none should know better than you that both gold and platinum are unaffected by nitric acid.”

Sir Charles Carrion scowled but made no comment, and Bascoigne continued. “Well, that finishes with Sir Charles for the moment, and from what I have just outlined, I think we others need have no fear that tales will ever be carried to quarters where they are not wanted. We are quite safe, I am sure.”

He pointed now to a small dark man, with a sallow oval face and a beard, trimmed and pointed, that suggested the artist. “And here is another medical man, a one-time Dr. Joseph Libbeus, a Hebrew of course, and an M.D., London.” He broke off as if an idea had struck him, and asked quickly. “Then you didn't recognise Sir Charles, Doctor. I was half expecting you would.”

“No,” was the quiet reply. “I have heard of him, of course, and Humanity will always be indebted to him for his 'Surgery of the Abdomen,' but I have never seen him before.” He inclined his head politely in the direction of Sir Charles. “He is a great man.”

The surgeon smiled coldly and Bascoigne continued. “Well, fifteen years ago, Dr. Libbeus was one of the most brilliant students who had ever qualified from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and before he was nine and twenty he had become a recognised authority upon 'toxicology.'” He rubbed his hands as if very pleased. “His knowledge of poisons will be most useful to us.” He went on. “But a great calamity overtook him, for, in financial difficulties and tempted by the big fee of two hundred guineas, he performed a certain operation and the woman died. He might, however, have escaped all consequences of his action but for the hostility of a brother practitioner, and tried at the Old Bailey, he was sentenced to five years penal servitude, from which he emerged six years ago. He went to Shanghai, and obtained employment in a factory for the production of high explosives—here, again, he is the very man we want—but unhappily, strong suspicion arose in that city that he had administered poison to the husband of a lady with whom he was on friendly terms, and he was fortunate to be able to escape from the country before matters came to a head. As much altered in appearance as I am, because bearded, and an habitual opium addict, he——”

“That's neither here nor there,” broke in Dr. Libbeus angrily. “I take my opium pill just as you take your alcohol or your tobacco.” He made a sharp motion with his hand. “Keep off unnecessary personalities, please.”

“——he returned to England,” continued Bascoigne, as if he had not heard the interruption, “and, as Professor Batcher, now carries on a highly unlawful practice at 275 Queen Ann's Street. Two of his patients have died recently, but forging the name of a Dr. Anthony Harden of Kew, whom he has ascertained is at the present moment travelling abroad, he has had no difficulty in getting them interred in the customary manner.”

Dr. Libbeus was moistening his dry lips with his tongue and his face had gone an ashen grey, but Sir Charles Carrion looked highly amused.

“A most excellent joke!” he chuckled. “Most excellent! It happens I know Harden quite well, and his eyes would pop out in horror if he knew what had been certified over his name. He is a smug, sanctimonious man, and the acme of unctuous respectability.” He turned and patted Dr. Libbeus in a most friendly fashion upon the shoulder. “But see here, sir—next time you want a certificate of death, come straight to me and I'll give it you. Then you won't be running any risks. I'm not fussy and shall be quite prepared to certify to anything you want.”

Dr. Libbeus at once recovered his composure and the blood returned to his face. “Thank you very much indeed, Sir Charles,” he said warmly, “I shall be most grateful to you.”

Bascoigne rubbed his hands together again. “That's right,” he said gleefully. “I was certain we should all become good friends.” He turned to the fourth man, the one with the determined jaw. “Now for Mr. Edward Mason, a prosperous estate-agent of Mile End Road. His real name is Sabine Guildford, and he is, or was, a member of the legal profession, but in 1915 he speculated with funds entrusted to his care and an unsympathetic judge ordered him free board and lodging for five years at the expense of his Majesty. Of course, too, he was struck off the Rolls.”

“If they had given me three weeks' grace,” interrupted Guildford fiercely, “they would have got back every penny I took, for the investment righted itself. But the Law Society would have its pound of flesh.”

“Exactly,” agreed Bascoigne, “it was the Law Society that drove you into the paths you subsequently took.” He turned back to the others. “Well, at the expiration of his sentence, our friend proceeded to make his home in Mile End Road, and, with his profound knowledge of law, his enterprise, and his undoubted business ability, soon became a person of importance in the circle in which he now moves.”

Guildford began to stir uneasily in his chair here and Bascoigne went on. “He is a blackmailer, he finances the elite of the criminal classes, and his house is a hiding place for them when they are pursued. He is a receiver of stolen goods, he is engaged in the dope traffic, and he forges passports for entry into every country in the world. Also, when the occasion is propitious, he does not hesitate to embark upon criminal adventures of his own.” He laughed merrily. “That is so, Mr. Guildford, is it not?”

Guildford's face had assumed an ugly look and his beady eyes were blinking viciously. “Go on,” he growled, “you seem to know more about me than I know myself.”

Bascoigne beamed good humour and good nature. “But I have told you I have made it my business to find out everything about you all, and there is no exaggeration in anything I say.” He spoke banteringly. “At any rate you must admit that for 10 days prior to the burglary at Lord Farleigh's at Stoke d'Aberon last month, and the very violent death of his gardener in the grounds—you were occupying that little cottage you rent in Oxshott Woods, close by, and you cannot deny that you had been making mysterious excursions from there in the dead of night, upon three or four occasions just before the burglary occurred.” He pretended to look very grave. “So, the authorities if they are aware of it, might perhaps be inclined to think that you have been spying out the ground.”