Devil's Dice
Presently my companion turned to me, saying: “There is still one small thing more. Before we alight you must allow me to tie my handkerchief across your eyes.”
“In order that I may not note the exterior of the house – eh?” I suggested, laughing.
He nodded, and a strange cynical smile played upon his lips.
“Very well,” I said. “It is useless, I suppose, to protest.”
He did not answer, but folding a silk handkerchief he placed it over my eyes and tied it tightly at the back. Almost at the moment he had completed this the conveyance stopped, the door was opened, and, led by my mysterious companion, I alighted.
Taking his arm, we crossed the pavement and ascended a short flight of steps. There were three. I counted them. I could also hear the wind in some trees, and found myself wondering whether we were in town or country.
A door opened, and we stepped into a hall, which, owing to the echo of my conductor’s voice, I concluded was a spacious one, but ere I had time to reflect, the man whose arm I held said:
“Just a moment. You must sign the visitors’ book – it is the rule here. We’ll excuse bad writing as you can’t see,” he added with a laugh.
At the same moment I felt a pen placed in my fingers by a man-servant, who guided my hand to the book. Then I hastily scrawled my name.
It was strange, I thought; but the events of the evening were all so extraordinary that there was nothing after all very unusual in signing a visitors’ book.
Again he took my arm, leading me up a long flight of stairs, the carpet of which was so thick that our feet fell noiselessly. In the ascent I felt that the balustrade was cold and highly polished, like glass. Confused and mysterious whisperings sounded about me, and I felt confident that I distinctly heard a woman’s sob quite close to me, while at the same moment a whiff of violets greeted my nostrils. Its fragrance stirred my memory – it was Sybil’s favourite perfume. Suddenly my guide ushered me into a room and took the handkerchief from my eyes. The apartment was a small study, cozy and well furnished, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and lit only by a green-shaded reading-lamp.
“If you’ll take off your overcoat and wait here a few moments I will bring her to you,” he said; adding, “you can talk here alone and undisturbed,” and he went out, closing the door after him.
Five eager minutes passed while I listened for her footstep, expecting each second to hear her well-known voice; but gradually the atmosphere seemed to become stifling. In my mouth was a sulphurous taste, and the lamp, growing more dim, at last gave a weak flicker and went out. Rushing to the door, I found, to my astonishment, it was locked!
I dashed to the window and tried to open it, but could not. In despair I beat the door frantically with my fists and shouted. But my muffled voice seemed as weak as a child’s. I doubted whether it could be heard beyond the walls.
Flinging myself upon my knees, I bent to examine the small fire, glowing like a blacksmith’s forge, and discovered to my horror that the chimney had been closed, and that the grate was filled with burning charcoal. Quickly I raked it out, but the red cinders only glowed the brighter, and, even though I dashed the hearthrug upon them, I could not extinguish them.
In desperation I tried to struggle to my feet, but failed. My legs refused to support me; my head throbbed as if my skull would burst. Then a strange sensation of nausea crept over me; my starting eyes smarted as if acid had been flung into them, my tongue clave to the roof of my parched mouth, my chest seemed held in contraction by a band of iron, as half rising I fell next second, inert and helpless, a sudden darkness obliterating all my senses.
What time elapsed I have no idea. Gradually I struggled back to consciousness, and as I made desperate endeavour to steady my nerves and collect my thoughts, I suddenly became painfully aware of a bright light falling full upon me. My eyes were dazzled by the extraordinary brilliancy. I closed them again, and tried to recollect what had occurred.
“Pull yourself together, my dear fellow. You are all right now, aren’t you?” asked a voice in my ear.
I recognised the tones as those of my strange guide.
“Yes,” I answered mechanically. “But Sybil – where is she?”
He made no reply.
I tried to open my eyes, but again the light dazzled me. About me sounded soft sibilations and the frou-frou of silk, while the warm air seemed filled with the sickly perfume of tuberoses. My left hand was grasping the arm of a capacious saddle-bag chair, wherein I was evidently sitting, while in my right I held something, the nature of which I could not at first determine.
My trembling fingers closed upon it more tightly a moment later, and I suddenly recognised that it was the hand of a woman! Again opening my heavy eyes, I strained them until they grew accustomed to the brightness, and was amazed to discover myself sitting in a spacious, richly-furnished drawing-room, brilliant with gilt and mirrors, while two men and two women in evening dress were standing around me, anxiety betrayed upon their pale faces. In a chair close beside mine sat a woman, whose hand I was holding.
Springing to my feet, my eyes fell full upon her. Attired in dead-white satin, a long veil hid her face, and in her hair and across her corsage were orange-blossoms. She was a bride!
Behind her – erect and motionless – was the man who had conducted me there, while at her side stood a grave, grey-haired clergyman, who at that moment was gabbling the concluding portion of the marriage service. The veil failed to conceal her wondrous beauty; in an instant I recognised her.
It was the woman I adored. A wedding-ring was upon the hand I had held!
“Speak, Sybil!” I cried. “Speak! tell me the reason of this!”
But she answered not. Only the clergyman’s droning voice broke the silence. The hand with the ring upon it lay upon her knees and I caught it up, but next second dropped it, as if I had been stung. Its contact thrilled me!
Divining my intention, the man who had brought me there dashed between us, but ere he could prevent me, I had, with a sudden movement, torn aside the veil.
Horror transfixed me. Her beauty was entrancing, but her blue eyes, wide open in a stony stare, had lost their clearness and were rapidly glazing; her lips, with their true arc de Cupidon, were growing cold, and from her cheeks the flush of life had departed, leaving them white as the bridal dress she wore.
I stood open-mouthed, aghast, petrified.
Sybil, the woman I loved better than life, was dead, and I had been married to her!
Chapter Three
Ghosts of the Past
Horrified and appalled, my startled eyes were riveted upon the flawless face that in life had entranced me.
“See! She’s dead – dead!” I gasped wildly, when a few seconds later I fully realised the ghastly truth.
Then throwing myself upon my knees, heedless of the presence of strangers, I seized her clammy hand that bore the wedding-ring, and covered it with mad, grief-impassioned caresses. In her breast was a spray of tuberoses, flowers ineffably emblematic of the grave. Faugh! how I have ever since detested their gruesome, sickly odour. There is death in their breath.
The despairing look in her sightless eyes was so horrible that I covered my face with my hands to shut it out from my gaze. The secret terror that she had dreaded, and to which she had made such veiled, gloomy references, had actually fallen. Her incredible presage of evil, which in Luchon I had at first regarded as the fantastic imaginings of a romantic disposition, had actually become an accomplished fact – some dire, mysterious catastrophe, sudden and complete, had overwhelmed her.
The woman I adored was dead!
In those moments of desolation, stricken down by a sudden grief, I bent over the slim, delicate hands that had so often grasped mine in warm affection, and there came back to me memories of the brief joyous days in the gay little mountain town, when for hours I walked by her side in rapturous transports and sat with her each evening under the trees, charmed by her manner, fascinated by her wondrous fathomless eyes, held by her beautiful countenance as under a spell. There had seemed some mysterious rapport between her soul and mine. The sun shone more brightly for me on the day she came into my world, and my heart became filled with a supreme happiness such as I, blasé and world-weary, had never known. Heaven had endowed her with one of those women’s souls embodying pity and love, a ray of joy-giving light from a better world, that consoled my being, softened my existence, and aroused within me for the first time the conviction that in this brotherhood of tears there existed one true-hearted, soft-voiced woman, who might be the sweet companion of my future life. Through those few sunny days we had been forgetful of all earth’s grim realities, of all the evil thoughts of the world. We had led an almost idyllic existence, inspired by our love-making with great contempt for everything, vainly imagining that we should have no other care than that of loving one another.
Ah! how brief, alas! had been our paradise! How sudden and complete was my bereavement! how bitter my sorrow!
True, Sybil had spoken of the mysterious spectral terror which constantly held her in a paroxysm of fear; yet having been satisfied by her declaration that she was not already married, I had continued to love her with the whole strength of my being, never dreaming that her end was so near. Dead! She could no longer utter those soft, sympathetic words that had brought peace to me. No longer could she press my hand, nor smile upon me with those great eyes, clear and trusting as a child’s. Only her soulless body was before me; only her chilly form that ere long would be snatched from my sight forever.
No, I could not realise that she had departed beyond recall. In mad desperation I kissed her brow in an attempt to revivify her. At that moment her sweet voice seemed raised within me, but it was a voice of remembrance that brought hot tears to my eyes.
A second later I sprang up, startled by a loud knocking at the door of the room. The unknown onlookers, breathless and silent, exchanged glances of abject terror. “Hark!” I cried. “What’s that?”
“Hush!” they commanded fiercely. For a few seconds there was a dead silence, then the summons was repeated louder than before, as a deep voice outside cried:
“Open the door. We are police officers, and demand admittance in the name of the law.”
Upon the small assembly the words fell like a thunderbolt.
“They have come!” gasped one of the women, pale and trembling. She was of middle age, and wore an elaborate toilette with a magnificent necklet of pearls.
“Silence! Make no answer,” the man who had conducted me from Richmond whispered anxiously. “They may pass on, and we may yet escape.”
“Escape!” I echoed, looking from one to the other; “what crime have you committed?”
A third time the knocking was repeated, when suddenly there was a loud crash, and the door, slowly breaking from its hinges, fell, with its silken portiere, heavily into the room as three detectives, springing over it, dashed towards us.
“See! there she is!” cried one of the men authoritatively, pointing to Sybil. “Arrest her!”
The two others dashed forward to execute their inspector’s orders, but as they did so the clergyman stepped quickly before her chair, and, raising his bony hand, cried:
“Back, I command you! Back! The lady for whose arrest I presume you hold a warrant has, alas! gone to where she is not amenable to the law of man.”
The men halted, puzzled.
“What do you mean?” cried the inspector.
“Look for yourselves, gentlemen,” the man answered calmly. Then, in a voice full of emotion he added, “She is dead!”
“Dead! Impossible!” all three echoed dismayed, as next second they crowded around her, gazed into her calm, sweet face, and touching her stiffening fingers, at last satisfied themselves of the terrible truth. Then they removed their hats reverently, and, aghast at the sudden and unexpected discovery, stood eagerly listening to the grave-faced man who had made the amazing announcement.
“Yes,” he continued, preserving a quiet demeanour. “Such an occurrence is undoubtedly as unexpected by you as it is bitterly painful to us. This intrusion upon the death-chamber is, I know, warranted by certain unfortunate circumstances; nevertheless it is my duty, as the officiating priest, to inform you that shortly before this lady expired she was united in matrimony by special licence to this gentleman, Mr Stuart Ridgeway, and of course if you wish you can inspect the register, which I think you will find duly in order.”
“The marriage does not concern us,” the red-faced inspector answered, murmuring in the same breath an apology for causing us unnecessary pain by forcing the door. “The lady is dead, therefore we must, of course, return our warrant unexecuted.”
The others also expressed regret at their hasty action, and, having quite satisfied themselves that Sybil was not merely unconscious, they consulted among themselves in an undertone, and afterwards withdrew with disappointment plainly portrayed upon their features.
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded angrily of the clergyman when they had gone.
“Unfortunately I can make no explanation,” he replied.
“But while I have been unconscious you have, without my knowledge or consent, performed the ceremony of marriage, uniting me to a dead bride. You have thus rendered yourself distinctly liable to prosecution, therefore I demand to know the reason at once,” I exclaimed fiercely.
Unconcernedly he shrugged his shoulders, answering: “I regret extremely that it is beyond my power to satisfy you. No doubt all this appears exceedingly strange; nevertheless, when the truth is revealed, I venture to think you will not be inclined to judge me quite so harshly, sir. I was asked to perform a service, and have done so. This lady is your wife, although, alas! she no longer lives.”
“But why was I entrapped here to be wedded to a dying woman?”
“I have acted no part in entrapping you – as you term it,” he protested with calm dignity. “I had but one duty; I have performed that faithfully.”
“Then I am to understand that you absolutely refuse to tell me the name of my dead wife, or any facts concerning her?”
“I do.”
“Very well, then. I shall invoke the aid of the police in order to fully investigate the mystery,” I said. “That all of you fear arrest is evident from the alarm betrayed on the arrival of the officers. What guarantee have I that Sybil has not been murdered?”
“Mine,” interposed one of the men, bald-headed and grey-bearded, who had until then been standing silent and thoughtful. “I may as well inform you that I am a qualified medical practitioner, and for two years have been this lady’s medical attendant. She suffered acutely from heart-disease, and the hurry and excitement of the marriage ceremony under such strange conditions has resulted fatally. I think my certificate, combined with my personal reputation in the medical profession, will be quite sufficient to satisfy any coroner’s officer.”
Approaching my dead bride as he spoke, he tenderly closed her staring eyes, composed her hands, and, taking up the veil I had torn aside, folded it and placed it lightly across her white face.
I was about to demur, when suddenly the man who had acted as my guide placed his hand upon my shoulder, saying in a calm, serious tone:
“Remember, you have taken your oath never to attempt to elucidate this mystery.”
“Yes, but if I have suspicion that Sybil has been murdered I am justified in breaking it,” I cried in protest.
“She has not been murdered, I swear,” he replied. “Moreover, the doctor here stakes his professional reputation by giving a certificate showing natural causes.”
This did not satisfy me, and I commented in rather uncomplimentary terms upon the unsatisfactory nature of the whole proceedings.
“But before coming here you accepted my conditions,” the man said, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. “Sybil sought your aid to save her from a deadly peril, and you were willing to assist her. You have done so, although alas! all our efforts have been unavailing. You have had the unique experience of having been a bridegroom and a widower within ten minutes. Although I admit that there are many mysterious circumstances surrounding your tragic union, yet for the present it is impossible to give my explanation. Indeed, as I have already told you, any inquiries must inevitably increase your burden of sorrow and unhappiness. Therefore preserve silence and wait until I am able to render you full satisfaction. When the true facts are exposed, you will find that the only safeguard to ourselves lies in the present preservation of our secret.”
I observed that he was fully alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and anxiously followed my words. I surprised a swift gleam in his eye that revealed the instinctive terror of the animal attacked at the moment of its fancied security. I felt convinced that a crime had been committed. At thought of it my heart-beats were quickened, and my nerves thrilled. Again he placed his hand upon my shoulder, but I shrank with unconquerable repugnance from that contact. “I intend to elucidate this mystery,” I said firmly. “Neither threats nor oaths shall deter me from seeking the truth.”
“Very well,” he replied hoarsely; “if you intend to violate your oath, taken before your Creator, do so. Nevertheless, I and my friends warn you of the penalty for so doing.”
“Well, and what is the penalty, pray?”
He shrugged his shoulders, but no answer passed his lips.
His face had strong individuality and vivid expression. As he stood there between the two handsomely-dressed women, in his grey furtive eyes, too wide apart, and always seeming to shun observation; in his prematurely grey hair, in his mouth set round with deep wrinkles; in his dark, blotched, bilious complexion, there seemed to be a creature of another race. What passions had worn those furrows? What vigils had hollowed those eyeballs? Was this the face of a happy man who had known neither the wearying cares of ambition, the toil of money-getting, nor the stings of wounded self-love? Why did all these marks of trouble and exhaustion suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was I astonished that I had not sooner sought for it?
“Then you threaten me?” I said slowly, after a moment’s pause.
“I threaten nothing,” he answered, raising his dark eyebrows, and adding, “There is no reason, as far as I can see, why we should be enemies, but rather let us be friends. Sybil’s death has brought to my heart grief quite as poignant as that which you are suffering; therefore in our mourning for one who was pure and good, should we not be united? I have given you my word that I will elucidate the mystery as soon as I feel confident that no catastrophe will follow. I consider that this should satisfy you for the present, and that your own discretion should induce you to wait at least with patience.”
As he spoke there were some little details – the quick flutter of the eyelids, the rapidly dismissed expression of disagreeable surprise when I announced my intention of breaking my oath – that did not escape me. But was it not the same with myself? I could have sworn that at the same moment he experienced sensations exactly similar to those which were catching me at the breast and in the throat. Did this not prove that a current of antipathy existed between him and me?
Why had the police held a warrant for Sybil’s arrest? Why had such care been taken to conceal her identity? Why had I been married to her so mysteriously? Why had she so suddenly passed to that land that lies beyond human ken? Had a fatal draught been forced between her lips; or had she, too, been placed in that room where I had so narrowly escaped asphyxiation?
“Since I have been in this house,” I said, “an attempt has been made to kill me. I have therefore a right to demand an explanation, or place the matter in the hands of the police.”
“There was no attempt to injure you. It was imperative that you should be rendered unconscious,” the man said.
“And you expect me to accept all this, and make no effort to ascertain the true facts?” I cried. “Sybil feared an unknown terror, but it appears to me more than probable that she lived in constant dread of assassination.”
The man frowned, and upon the faces of those about him settled dark, ominous expressions.
“It is useless to continue this argument in the presence of the dead,” he said. “I have your address, and, if you desire it, I will call upon you to-morrow.”
“As you wish,” I replied stiffly. “I have no inclination to remain in this house longer than necessary.”
Crossing to where the body of Sybil reclined, I slowly raised the veil, gazing for some moments upon her calm, pale face, as restful as if composed in peaceful sleep. Bending, I pressed my lips to her clammy brow, then taking a piece of the drooping orange-blossom from her hair, I replaced the veil, and, overcome with emotion, walked unsteadily out over the fallen door, followed by the man whom I felt instinctively was my enemy.
Together we descended the fine staircase, brilliantly lit by a huge chandelier of crystal and hung with large time-mellowed paintings, into a spacious hall, in which a footman with powdered hair awaited us. Half dazed, my senses not having recovered from the shock caused to them, first by the charcoal fumes and secondly by the appalling discovery of Sybil’s death, I remember that when the flunkey threw open the door a hansom was awaiting me, and that my strange companion himself gave the cabman my address. I have also a distinct recollection of having refused to grasp my enemy’s proffered hand, but it was not until I found myself seated alone before the dying embers of the fire in my chambers in Shaftesbury Avenue, my mind troubled to the point of torment, that it suddenly occurred to me that in leaving the mysterious mansion I had been culpably negligent of the future.
I had actually failed to take notice either of the exterior of the house, or of the thoroughfare in which it was situated!
I had, I knew, driven along Oxford Street eastward to Regent Street, and thence home, but from what direction the conveyance had approached the Marble Arch I knew not. In blank despair I paced my room, for I saw I should be compelled to search London for a house, of which all I knew of the exterior was that it had a wide portico in front and was approached from the pavement by three steps.
My omission to take notice of its aspect overwhelmed me with despair, for there were thousands of similar houses in the West-End, and I knew that, while I prosecuted my inquiries, those responsible for Sybil’s death would be afforded ample time to effect their escape.
That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. But nervousness gave way to determination, at once feverish and fixed, and it was in a mood of perfect self-mastery that, after a long period of mental conflict, I flung myself upon my couch with my plan of operations clearly laid out, and lay thinking over them until the yellow light of the wintry dawn struggled in between the curtains.
Chapter Four
A Deepening Mystery
As the cheerless morning wore on, I sat after breakfast gloomily smoking, trying to verify my first impression that Sybil had been the victim of foul play in the hope of dispelling it. But it was, on the contrary, deepened.
Either I was wrong to think thus; and at any price I was determined to convince myself by facts that I was wrong, or I was right. The sole resource henceforth remaining to me for the preservation of my self-respect and the unburdening of my conscience was ardent and ceaseless search after certainty.
Each hour as I pondered I was plunged more profoundly into the gulf of suspicion. Yet the very position of the intricate problem which I had before me seemed to forbid all hope of discovering anything whatsoever without a formal inquiry. With foolish disregard for the future, I had taken an oath to seek no explanation of what I might witness within that mysterious house; I had placed myself irrevocably under the thrall of the strange, cynical individual who had acted as Sybil’s messenger! Yet, now that Sybil was dead and everything pointed to a crime, I was fully justified in seeking the truth, and had resolved upon bringing the assassin to punishment.