The Hangman's Knot

Chapter II.—“The Drums of War.”-1

Chapter II.—“The Drums of War.”One Sunday afternoon towards the end of September, about three months after the events recorded in the last chapter, two men were seated in the crowded winter-garden of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton. One of them was a journalist, attached to the London 'Daily Cry,' and the other, a rubber planter, home on holiday from the Federated Malay States. The latter was reading a Sunday newspaper, and presently he threw it down.

“Well, really,” he remarked carelessly, “this dear old England of ours does not seem the law-abiding place it used to be, and certainly its police are not nearly as efficient as in days gone by.” His voice rose a little. “Why, here have I been home not a couple of months until next week, and yet I can recall at least four unsolved murders, and also a mysterious disappearance that looks darned like foul-play, too.” He held out the newspaper to his companion. “And here's another outrage, I see, reported this morning, some one shooting at Lord Cornwall's car yesterday at Barnstead, and a bullet going through the window. What the devil was that done for, I wonder?”

The journalist declined the proferred paper. “I've already seen it, old man,” he said. “It's interesting, but was possibly only an accident. Some one rabbiting, perhaps, on the common as the car went by, and maybe he didn't know what he had done.”

“And when that clergyman was shot at Surbiton,” remarked the planter sarcastically, “I suppose that was an accident, too! And when the old judge was killed at Eastbourne, and Lord Burkington at Harrogate—both accidents again!”

The journalist shook his head. “No, cold-blooded murders there,” he said instantly, “and very mysterious, too.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Still, among 50 million persons mysterious things are always happening, although, naturally, we don't always hear about them.”

“But has it struck you, Travers,” went on the planter, “that most of these johnnies who have struck trouble lately were at one time or other prominent in the particular circles in which they moved.”

The journalist laughed. “Of course it has,” he replied, “and that is why we remember about them. If Bill Bloggs had been killed in Whitechapel or Sam Stuckey at Mile End, matters might have been dismissed in two paragraphs and forgotten in two days, but the more prominent the person, naturally the more interested the public are when anything happens to him,”—he made a grimace—“and we newspaper men have to provide what they want. We cater for those interests.”

“Well, your police must be pretty rotten, anyhow,” said the planter, “to have made no discoveries at all.”

The journalist laughed again. “And how do you know they haven't made any discoveries?” he asked. He nodded. “You be here another month, my friend, and then note how many of those mysteries are in the way of being cleared up.”

* * *

A short silence followed, and the two friends interested themselves in regarding the company around them. It was the usual Sunday afternoon crowd of well-dressed men and beautifully-gowned women. People well known in society, business and professional men, people known in the art and literary worlds, owners of racehorses and sporting men, and a sprinkling of politicians.

“Well, and what do you think of them?” asked the journalist presently, turning back to his companion. “Notice any difference in the ten years you've been away?”

“No-o,” replied the rubber planter hesitatingly, “except that there are more women smoking now, and the sweet creatures are more made-up than ever.” He nodded appreciatively. “There are some lovely women here.”

“Yes, lovely,” agreed the journalist readily. He lowered his voice quickly. “Now, that girl opposite you is a perfect poem isn't she? Did you ever see more glorious eyes or a more beautiful profile? She's Lady Beeming, and that's her husband, not her grandfather sitting next to her. She's 20 and he's 65, and you'd swear from her appearance that the blood of a long line of noble ancestors ran through her veins.” He smiled drily. “But you'd be quite mistaken, for her parents were little green-grocers in Hoxton, and three years ago, before she went into the chorus at Sadler's Wells she was assisting in the shop and——” he broke off suddenly and nodded in the direction of a tall, gaunt man, who had just passed their table, “But look! There's a party who is just as hideous as she is lovely!”

“Who is he?” asked the planter. “He looks a near relation of Satan to me.”

“Sir Charles Carrion,” whispered the journalist, “and once one of the world's greatest surgeons. Crowned heads were among his patients, and in abdominal surgery he was the mightiest wielder of the knife. But his success was a cup of poison to him and some years ago, he had a nervous breakdown, and dropped out of things altogether. He looks a corpse now, but, funnily enough, he's returned into society lately, and I'm always running up against him in my work. Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes—you see him everywhere.”

“Go on,” said his friend. “Tell me about some of the other people here. I don't mind a few lies as long as they are interesting.”

The journalist pretended to look very angry. “Now, I've a darned good mind not to say another word, but as you shall now pay for this show, and I'm going to have another brandy, I'll overlook it this time.” He looked round the spacious winter-garden. “Now, let me see. Whom else do I know? Ah! there's somebody interesting, if you like, that rather pretty looking man, sitting at that table alone, and appearing so bored. Now what would you make of him?”

His friend looked in the direction indicated. “An artist,” he replied after a moment. “Good-looking himself, and certainly a lover of the beautiful.”

“Exactly,” nodded the journalist, “and a purloiner of it, too.” He spoke impressively. “That man, my friend, hails from Paris, and until recently was supposed to be one of the most active and expert thieves in France—Raphael Croupin. Haven't you heard of him?”

The planter shook his head. “A gaol bird!” he frowned. “Well, he doesn't look like one. What's he doing here?”

“Oh! he's quite respectable and a rich man now,” the other laughed. “One of his admirers, a wealthy old countess, died at the beginning of this year and left him a huge fortune, but before that, as I say, it was believed everywhere that he was a burglar—if a burglar of a very uncommon kind. He only took paintings of the old masters, old tapestries, historic jewels, and art treasures of great value. It was believed to be well-known to the authorities what he was doing, but they were never able to bring the robberies home to him. He has been up for trial three times and acquitted upon each occasion, because of water-tight alibies that could not be broken down. It was the joke of all France, and he was really a most popular character, for he only stole from the very rich and disbursed large sums in charity to the hospitals and among the very poor.”

The planter looked very amused. “Continue, my dear Travers,” he said smilingly. “You are most entertaining. Any more celebrities here?”

His friend looked round. “Yes,” he said, “there's a Cabinet Minister over there, Lord Ransome, that rather stout man, threading his way through the tables. He's the Home Secretary, and that's his daughter with him. Oh! oh!”—he exclaimed, becoming all at once quite animated—“now, there's some romance for you. See the people he's sitting down with? Well, they are Gilbert Larose, and his wife, who was once the wealthy widow, Lady Ardane.” He gripped his companion by the arm. “Two years ago, Travers, that man was just an ordinary policeman, a detective who used to be sent anywhere and everywhere by Scotland Yard, and now, to-day, he's married to one of the richest women in the kingdom, and lives almost in royal state at Carmel Abbey in Norfolk.”

“I've heard of him,” said the planter, very interested. “He was the star detective of Australia.” He drew in a deep breath. “Gad! his wife's beautiful! I always did admire red hair. What a lovely creature!”

“Yes, and there were scores of people who wanted her,” added the journalist, “and would have taken her without a penny piece, because of the beauty of that red head. She might have married into the peerage any day.” He sighed. “Larose is a lucky fellow.”

“But how did he manage it?” asked his friend.

“Merit, my boy, just merit,” was the instant reply, “and he deserves everything he's got, for he won her in the old-fashioned way, by saving her from her enemies. She was kidnapped and he rescued her at the risk of his own life, which, however, was nothing to him, for in his career he's been in more dangers than anyone can conceive.” He sighed again. “Yes, it was a real love-match and they worship each other and the red-haired little daughter that's come.”

“And good luck to him!” said the planter. “He looks a gentleman and a man of fine character.” He screwed up his eyes. “But how did people take it? What did society say?”

“Society!” laughed the journalist. “Well, Society was aghast!” His voice hardened. “But if anyone thought they were going to put one over Gilbert Larose, they were very much mistaken, for he just dropped into his place as if he'd been born to it. A strong character, nice manners, and a charming personality, he won over everybody at once, and to-day, at any public function in Norfolk, he's the biggest 'draw' you can get. Next to Royalty, he's the most popular attraction at any show, and his wife's immensely proud of him.”

“A policeman once,” commented the planter after a moment's silence, “and now that old aristocrat is smiling at him, almost as if he had a boon to crave.”

And had he only known it, the planter from Malay was quite right then, for although Lord Ransome had entered the winter-garden with no idea of meeting Gilbert Larose, the instant he had caught sight of him and his wife, he had immediately stopped, of set purpose, and with a gallant bow to Mrs. Larose, had held out his hand to her.

“And may we join you?” he asked, and at once receiving permission, he went on smilingly. “I see you are just as charming as ever, Mrs. Larose, and you don't look a day older than when I fell in love with your portrait in the academy—let me see, it must be six or seven years ago.”

Mrs. Larose shook her head reprovingly. “Now, that's not nice of you, Lord Ransome,” she laughed, “to remind me all that time has passed. You don't seem to realise that I am now fighting the years.”

“No, I certainly do not,” laughed back his lordship, “for there are no signs of warfare about you.” He bowed again. “I am sure I can congratulate your distinguished husband upon the care he is taking of you.” He turned to Larose. “Ah! that reminds me, sir, I've heard you're a most outstanding success upon the Bench. My friend, the Chief Constable of Norfolk, informs me that offenders are delighted to be brought up before you,”—he made a grimace—“for you either pay their fines yourself or let them off altogether.”

“Oh! no,” laughed Larose, “it's not quite as bad as that, Lord Ransome. Certainly, I always——”

“But he's not complaining,” broke in his lordship quickly. “On the contrary, for he says you are exerting a most splendid influence, and it has become almost a point of honour with the offenders not to be brought up again. For instance, I understand that there is no poaching at all now within many miles of Carmel Abbey.”

“But my husband bribes them,” smiled Mrs. Larose. “He gives them all a day's shooting every now and then, and makes me send out lunch, too,” she shook her head. “He's breaking all traditions and I can't do anything with him.”

They chatted animatedly together for a few minutes, Mrs. Larose telling of the delightful holiday she and her husband had been having for nearly three months in Switzerland, and how they had arrived only the previous day at Newhaven and were proceeding home on the morrow to Carmel Abbey. Then Lord Ransome turned to Larose and remarked carelessly, “Well, it's rather fortunate I met you here this afternoon, for I've been wanting for some time to have a little talk with you about your greyhounds. I have thought of entering one of mine for the Waterloo Cup, and should be most grateful to you for some advice.” He made an almost imperceptible movement with his eyebrows. “Now, what about coming up to my room for a few minutes? I am sure the ladies will excuse us.”