The Paddington Mystery. John Rhode

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СКАЧАТЬ the heavy artillery of lectures and weighty articles, with which he bombarded the supporters of all accepted theory. He claimed to be the precursor of Einstein, the first to breach the citadel of Newton. And as none of his acquaintances knew anything about these matters, he was not subjected to the annoyance of contradiction in his own house.

      The two friends, Merefield and Priestley, continued to see one another at frequent intervals. Priestley would take his little daughter down to stay in the country, Merefield would bring his boy up for a week in town, when April and Harold, much of an age, would be sent to the Zoo and Madame Tussaud’s and Earl’s Court Exhibition, under the careful tutelage of April’s governess. Their parents, presumably, alternated the conversation between the calculus of variations and the rights of heirs and assigns over messuages and tenements.

      It was perhaps unavoidable that one of those curious understandings, whose secrets adults fondly imagine are securely hidden from their offspring, should have been arrived at between the two. And in this case the understanding was less vague than usual. Anything indeterminate was a source of horror to the mathematician; anything loosely worded a reproach to the solicitor. It is not to be supposed that an agreement was actually drawn up, sealed, signed and delivered. But both these fond parents had firmly made up their minds that Harold was to marry April.

      Their children, more accommodating than children are apt to be, fell in willingly enough with this plan. It was, of course, only conveyed to them in hints, increasing in clarity as they approached years of discretion. The whole business was taken for granted; it was a postulate to which there could be no possible alternative. Then came the war, the death of Merefield the elder, and Harold’s strange aberration from his appointed path.

      There is no need to trace the widening of the breach, the outspoken condemnations of Professor Priestley, the subtler scorn of April. The crisis came one afternoon, when Harold had called at the house in Westbourne Terrace after lunching particularly well. Aspasia’s Adventures had been published a few days previously, and the occasion had called for a bottle by way of celebration. The first thing that met Harold’s eye on the table of the Professor’s study, into which he had been shown, was a copy of this sensational volume—it should be remarked that the publishers had seen fit to embellish it with a jacket upon which the heroine was displayed in male company in a lack of costume definitely startling. Harold’s interview with April’s father ended with the statement by the latter that he could not possibly contemplate the marriage of his daughter to a man whose dissipated manners had culminated in the production of such pornographic twaddle as this, to which Harold, emboldened by champagne, had retorted that April appeared to be adequately consoled by the company of that young cub Evan Denbigh, and that he proposed to go his own way as he pleased, anyhow. This short and heated interview had taken place some six months previously, and had been the last occasion on which he had passed the portals of the house in Westbourne Terrace.

      But it was now a very chastened Harold who pressed the bell-push, with that nervous touch which betrays a secret hope that the bell has not rung, and that a few more minutes of respite must therefore elapse before the ordeal. But, light as had been his touch, the bell had tinkled far away in the lower regions, and Mary, the old parlourmaid, to whom much was forgiven, appeared with startling suddenness.

      She, at least, was still on Harold’s side, retaining, perhaps, fond memories of secret orgies of candied peel in her pantry when the children were placed temporarily in her charge in the absence of the governess.

      ‘Gracious me, Master Harold, you are a stranger!’ she exclaimed. Then, with swift recollection of the respect due to one whose name had appeared so prominently in the papers during the last few days, she continued: ‘The Master’s in his study, sir, if you’ll kindly come this way—’

      Well, he was in for it now. The door opened and he was ushered in. The Professor, working at his desk in the window, started up at the sound of his name.

      ‘Come in, Harold, my boy,’ he exclaimed, holding out his hand. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’m very glad of the opportunity of telling you how sorry we were to read of this—er—distressing occurrence.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ Harold replied gratefully. ‘I felt I had to come round and talk to you about it.’

      He sat down in one of the leather chairs before the fire, and the Professor took the other.

      ‘I was waiting for you to come,’ said the latter quietly. ‘I would have come to you, but it seemed better you should come of your own accord. I think I can guess the shock it must have been to you.’

      Harold paused a minute. ‘I’ve been through a pretty rotten time in the last few days,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you’ve seen all about it in the papers?’

      The Professor nodded, and Harold continued despondently.

      ‘It’s made me pretty sick with myself and the way I’ve been living. Although I went straight to the police, they seemed to think I was in some way responsible for the man’s death. I had to answer a devil of a lot of questions as to my movements that evening. They found the taxi-driver who had driven me home; fortunately the man remembered me. But that didn’t satisfy them. They wanted to know where I had been spending my time before he picked me up. I wouldn’t tell them for a long time, until they pointed out that if they put me on my trial it was bound to come out.’

      ‘Why wouldn’t you tell them?’ enquired the Professor.

      ‘Well—oh, I may as well make a clean breast of it, sir,’ replied Harold impulsively. ‘I’d been spending the evening at a place I particularly didn’t want to draw their attention to. It’s called the Naxos Club—drink after hours, and all that kind of thing, you know.’

      The Professor furrowed his brow in thought. ‘Naxos, Naxos?’ he repeated. ‘Ah yes, I remember a young woman of the name of Ariadne, had an—ah—adventure with Bacchus at an island of that name some years ago. A most suitable designation for your club, no doubt. So you had to divulge the secrets of this place to the police, had you?’

      ‘I only told them I’d been there,’ replied Harold. ‘Inspector Hanslet, who had charge of my case, said that if the taxi-driver was correct as to my condition when he drove me home the place would bear looking into. Next day he told me that my alibi was established, but that the members of the Naxos Club would have to seek another rendezvous in future. I’m afraid he must have had it raided.’

      ‘I’m afraid he must,’ commented the Professor drily. ‘A fact which will scarcely add to your popularity with your former associates. Take my advice and drop them, my boy. It isn’t too late to run straight, you know. You’ve had a nasty shock, and you may as well profit by it.’

      ‘I wish to God I could!’ exclaimed Harold. ‘I’m sick of the whole thing, sick of the rotten way I’ve behaved, thoroughly well ashamed of myself. I’d like to go straight, to find a decent job somewhere, but what the devil am I to do? This man’s death is still a mystery, they haven’t even found out who he was. The coroner made some pretty rotten remarks at the inquest, the police and everybody else seem to think that even if I didn’t kill him, I must know something about the business. No, I’m under suspicion—I know jolly well I’m being watched still. And you can’t expect anyone to take kindly to a fellow whose name has been unpleasantly notorious in the papers for a week. No, sir it’s no good. I shall have to clear out of the country, and that’s what I came to ask you about.’

      The Professor paused a minute before replying. ‘I’m not surprised you look at it like that,’ he said at last. ‘The trouble you have have been through has not unnaturally got on your nerves. But, as a matter of fact, it is not so bad as you make out. I, for СКАЧАТЬ