Voodoo Tales: The Ghost Stories of Henry S Whitehead (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (23 page)

Carruth’s finger was already on the silver doorbell-button when I came up beside him, and this circumstance gave me my first occasion to turn and look behind me. I did so, at once, because it occurred to me that the very smart, gray-haired footman whom the car’s owner had addressed as ‘Baines’, should have been there, pressing that button with an efficient black-gloved finger.

Below on the sidewalk the nursemaid was retreating as rapidly as she could walk, and, as she looked back over her shoulder, I saw that her apple cheeks had gone to a kind of oyster-gray, and that her terrified mouth hung open like a Greek tragic mask.

But the nursemaid, strange sight that she presented, got only a passing glance from me, for I brought my eyes around to the curb where we had alighted, a matter of seconds before, to see what had happened to the footman, Baines, who like any proper footman, should have been up the steps before us. It seemed inconceivable that such a man should be remiss in his duties and yet –

I brought my eyes around, I say, and looked down there, and – there was no Baines. Neither was there any driver beside the footman in the chauffeur’s seat. There was no seat.
There was no car
! The limousine, an old-model Napier, was clean gone. The street in front of No. 12, Portman Terrace was entirely empty and deserted . . .

It is hard to set down in words how very serious a jar this discovery was. I
knew
that the car was still there before I turned around to look for Baines.

I knew that because I had not heard the inevitable slight sounds made in starting even by the most soundless of cars, under the ministrations of the most perfectly trained chauffeur such as ours had shown himself to be on our ride from in front of St Paul’s Cathedral to Portman Terrace.

There it was, that empty street; the agitated back of the rapidly retreating nursemaid receding into the distance; the car gone, chauffeur, footman and all! My first sense of surprise rapidly mounted to the status of a slow shock. That car
must
be there! I could take my oath it had not started. It could not move off without some sound. It was unthinkable that I should not have heard it. Yet – it was not there. No. 12, Portman Terrace stands in its own grounds in the middle of a long block of solid houses. Starting with absolute noiselessness, even a racing car could not have reached the corner – either corner. And, to get to the nearer of the two corners, the car would have had to turn around. I looked up and down the broad, empty street in both directions. The Napier limousine, unmistakable in its custom-built lines, somewhat old-fashioned, conspicuous, was, simply, not there. I started to speak to Rand, but was interrupted by the opening of the door. A stout, florid, family-retainer of a butler stood there, bowing.

‘The Earl of Carruth, and Mr Gerald Canevin,’ said Rand, reaching for his card case, ‘and it is imperative that we see Sir Harry Dacre immediately, in spite, even, of his possible orders that he is engaged.’

I followed Rand’s motion for my card case mechanically and produced a card. The butler benignly ushered us within. He took our coats and hats and sticks. He showed us into a small drawing-room overlooking the square, just to the left of the entrance hall with its black marble paving.

‘I will take your names to Sir Harry at once, m’Lord,’ announced the butler urbanely, and disappeared up a wide flight of stairs.

This errand to Sir Henry Dacre, whom neither had ever seen, but who had been of late a familiar name to the newspaper-reading public, had been thrust upon Rand and myself in a somewhat remarkable manner. I had been, as it happened that morning, to my London tailor’s, whose shop is in Jermyn Street, for a fitting. Finishing this minor ordeal and emerging upon Jermyn Street, the very first person I encountered was Rand. We had been together two nights previously, at a small men’s dinner at Sir John Scott’s. It was at Sir John’s house that I had met him several months before. Anyone met there would be apt to be worth while. Sir John Scott presides over no less an institution than Scotland Yard. I had been immediately fascinated by Rand’s grasp of the subject which has always more intrigued me – that of magical beliefs and occult practices among native peoples.

We had talked eagerly together, absorbingly, that first evening of our acquaintance. We talked, in fact, almost too late and too continuously for courtesy to one’s host, even at a men’s dinner. We outstayed our three other fellow guests. A brief note, received the next day from Sir John, had expressed – to my relief – his gratification that we had found so much to say to each other, had proved to be congenial. Rand, he explained briefly – as I, an Amercian, might not be aware – was the world’s first authority on the subject I have named. He had been almost continuously away from England now for more than a score of years, serving the Empire in innumerable strange corners of its far-flung extent, but chiefly in India. A significant phrase of the note read: ‘It is unquestionably due to Lord Carruth’s remarkable abilities that the Indian Empire is now intact.’ I considered that a very open admission for an Englishman, particularly one in Sir John Scott’s position.

Meeting on the sidewalk that way, unexpectedly, we had stopped to chat for a moment, and, as it turned out that we were going in the same direction, we began to walk along together, arm in arm. As we came abreast of St Paul’s Cathedral, an elderly lady, very well dressed in plain black, came diagonally down the steps directly towards us, meeting us precisely as she reached the bottom. She addressed Rand directly.

‘Will you be good enough to spare me a minute of your time, Lord Carruth?’ she inquired.

‘Assuredly,’ replied Rand, bowing. We paused, removing our hats.

‘It is a very pressing matter, or I should not have put you to this trouble,’ said the lady, in a very beautiful, softly modulated voice, in which was to be clearly discerned that unmistakable tone of a class born to rule through many generations: a tone of the utmost graciousness, but nevertheless attuned to command. She continued: ‘I beg that you will go at once to Sir Harry Dacre. It is number 12, Portman Terrace. My car is here at your disposal, gentlemen.’ She included me with a gracious glance. ‘It is an emergency, a very pressing affair. If you will start at once, you will perhaps be in time to save him.’

As she spoke, the lady, without seeming to do so consciously, was approaching the curbstone, edging, and we with her, diagonally across the wide pavement. At the curb, as I now observed, stood a very beautifully kept and well appointed town car, a Napier of a dozen-years-ago model. The chauffeur, in a black livery, sat motionless at the wheel. A very smart-looking, alert though elderly footman – his close-cropped hair was quite white, I observed – stood at rigid attention beside the tonneau door, a carriage-rug, impeccably folded into a perfect rectangle, across his angular arm.

The footman saluted, snapped open the door of the car, and we were inside and the lady speaking to us through the open door almost before we realized what we were doing. Her last words were significant, and spoken with the utmost earnestness and conviction.

‘I pray God,’ said she, ‘that you may be in time, Lord Carruth. Sir Harry Dacre’s, Baines.’ This last she spoke very crisply, her words carrying an unmistakable undernote of urgency. The footman saluted again, very smartly; he draped the rug with practised skill across our four knees; the door was snicked to; and the old but beautifully appointed car, glistening with polish and good care, started almost simultaneously, the elderly footman snapping into his seat beside the chauffeur with an altogether surprising agility, and coming into position there like a ramrod, his arms folded before him with stiff precision.

Through London’s traffic now sped the Napier, as smoothly as a new car, the driving a very model of accuracy and sound form. It was plain that the unknown elderly lady was very well and promptly served. Not a single instant was lost, although there was no slightest feeling of being hurried such as ordinarily communicates itself to a person riding in an automobile when the driver is urged for time.

I glanced at Rand beside me. His ordinarily inscrutable, lean face was slightly puckered as though his mind were working hard.

‘Who was the lady?’ I ventured to inquire.

‘That is what is puzzling me just now,’ returned Rand. ‘Frankly, I do not remember! And yet, at the same time, I’m quite sure I do know her, or know who she is. I simply cannot place her, although her face is familiar. She knew me, clearly enough. It is very unusual for me to forget like that.’

In a surprisingly short time after our start on this strange drive we had turned into Portman Terrace, stopped, had the door snapped open for us by the agile old footman and were out on the sidewalk. My last glimpse of the equipage as a whole was the salute with which the footman dismissed us. Then the strange conduct of an otherwise commonplace nursemaid, to which I have alluded, took all my attention. The nursemaid acted in her crude manner, as nearly as I can manage to describe her motivation, precisely as though we had landed – the thought struck me even at that time – in front of her from nowhere, instead of having merely, as I have said, stepped to the curbstone beside her out of a very well appointed town-car.

I could see that nursemaid now on the far side of the street and at some distance, as we sat in Sir Harry Dacre’s small drawing-room, through the large window which looked out upon Portman Terrace. I even got up and walked to the window for the purpose. She was now talking with animation to a policeman, a big fellow. I watched with very great interest. I could not, of course, because of the distance and through a closed window, hear what she was saying, but I could follow it almost as well as though I could, from her gestures and the expressions on both their faces.

The woman pantomimed the entire occurrence for the policeman, and I got it now from her point of view, very clearly and plainly. My first impression of her possible reason for having behaved so insanely was amply corroborated. She had been placidly wheeling her charge along the walk when
plop!
two gentlemen, out of nowhere, had suddenly stepped on the curb in front of her! She had, of course, screamed. The gentlemen had looked at her as though surprised. They had then gone up the steps of Number 12, had rung and been admitted. These two visitors from Mars, or whatever they were, were now in Sir Harry Dacre’s house. Hadn’t the policeman better go and ring the area bell and make sure the silver was safe?

The policeman, a respectable-looking middle-aged man, probably accustomed to the vagaries of nursemaids, and doubtless with womenfolk of his own, sought to reassure her. Finally, not succeeding very well, he shrugged, left her expostulating and continued his dignified beat.

Learning in this way what had come over the nursemaid failed to make the mystery any clearer, however, than it had for the policeman, who had had the advantage of hearing her words. I was intensely puzzled. I turned away from the window and addressed Rand, who had been sitting there waiting in complete silence.

‘Have you any idea what’s wrong here?’ said I. ‘Here in this house, I mean.’

‘You’ve read the papers, of course?’ said Rand after a moment’s consideration of my question.

‘I know young Dacre’s got himself rather heavily involved,’ I replied. ‘It’s one of those infatuation affairs, is it not? A woman. She turns out to be mixed up, somehow, with Goddard, the impresario, or whatever he is. Isn’t that about the case?’

Rand nodded. ‘Yes. Apparently Goddard has him on toast. Rather a beast, that Goddard person. Goddard is not his name, by the way. A very clever person in the heavy-blackmail line. The Yard has never been able to “get anything on him”, as you Americans put it. He has his various theatrical connections largely for a cover; but his real game is deeper, and blacker. It is rumored in certain circles that Goddard has ground poor Dacre here down to the very last straw in his garret; made him sign over all his holdings to avoid a show-up. Just how far he is committed with “The Princess Lillia” of the Gaieties, nobody seems to know. But that she is Goddard’s wife, or at least that they are working together in close collusion, seems beyond question. That has not come out, of course. It is inside information.’

‘But,’ said I, ‘just how, if I may ask, does that give them so complete a hold on Dacre? Why doesn’t he simply repudiate them, now that he must know they set a trap for him? As nearly as I can figure it out from what I’ve seen in the papers and what you have just now told me, it’s nothing more or less than an old-fashioned attempt at blackmail. And besides, it’s had a certain amount of publicity already, hasn’t it? Just what does Dacre stand to lose if Goddard does go to a show-down with him?’

‘The point is,’ explained Rand, ‘that Dacre is engaged to be married to one of the loveliest girls in England. If it should really come out that “The Princess Lillia” is Goddard’s wife, that would be off entirely. Lord Roxton would make that distinction very emphatically.

‘To a man of his known views, a fine young fellow like Dacre would be more or less entitled to what Roxton would call “his fling”. That would be typical, of course – British – to be expected. A well-to-do, unattached young man about town – and a lady from the Follies. Then the young blood really falls in love, drops his light-o’-love, is very devoted, marries, “settles down”. But – if the lady from the Follies turns out to be the wife of somebody, somebody as much in the public eye as Leighton Goddard, and the matter of merely discontinuing that sort of thing is complicated by a law-suit brought by the outraged husband – you can see how ruinous it would be, can you not, Canevin? The more especially when one is dealing with one of those rather narrow, puritanical old hoddy-doddies like Lord Roxton, who is so consciously upright that he positively creaks with piety when he gets up or sits down. He would never allow his daughter to marry Dacre under those circumstances. He’s the President of the Evangelican League, a reformer. Incidentally, he is one of the richest men in England; has tremendously strong views on how people should behave, you know. And Dacre’s financial affairs, his investments, are to a considerable extent tied up with Lord Roxton’s promotions and companies.’