The Bartenstein Case

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THE BARTENSTEIN CASE

In The Bartenstein Case Mr. J. S. Fletcher has written one of those highly ingenious detective mysteries in which he has made a reputation. He here deals with the mystery attaching to a certain sword-stick which had been in a family of rank for many generations. A murder, in which this sword-stick plays a part, is skilfully unravelled by a Scotland Yard man after many wonderful adventures and by-issues. A Jew millionaire, a young officer in the Army, a charming girl, and a young man about town who prides himself on his skill as an amateur detective, figure largely in the book, in which also appears a striking character known as "Grandfather Punctuality".

By the same Author:—

Book the First, Chapter I.

BOOK THE FIRST

The Murder at Princes Gate

CHAPTER I

LOVERS

Of all the open spaces with which London has so generously provided her people, there is no single one which compares with Kensington Gardens for a certain charm which seems peculiar to it. True enough, this stretch of ground has no undulations, no mimic hills, no miniature valleys; it possesses no stream or river, real or artificial, and its pond, however useful to the owners of model yachts and to small owners of smaller craft, is not a thing of beauty. Also there are no particular views in Kensington Gardens, always excepting the artificially contrived view from the Palace windows, which gives you the impression of being in the midst of a large park, and conveys a sense of noble expanse. But the charm of the place is neither in views nor scenery; it is rather in the presence of many trees, of delightful shadiness, and of great quiet.

No one ever sees Kensington Gardens crowded. Its tea-house stands away in a corner, and there is no accommodation for riding your own or other people's horses. It is a great place for nursemaids, babies, and old ladies who bring out fat pugs and poodles for a much-needed constitutional; a great place, too, for quiet people who wish to meditate or to read; a great place for young gentlemen with long hair and young ladies in æsthetic frocks who wish to commune with Nature while composing a sonnet or a rondeau. And it is also a convenient place for lovers who wish to have a little quiet conversation with each other.

There was one such lover, waiting impatiently near the Lancaster Gate entrance one fine June morning, who wished that the gardens, quiet as they were just then, were even less public and more shady—that they were, in fact, a quiet and umbrageous valley in the midst of mountains, where there was absolute solitude. When you are but five-and-twenty, and terribly in love, and have become engaged to the object of your love, and the engagement has only just taken place—in fact, only a few hours ago—you naturally wish to lead her to quiet retreats; in short, to have her all to yourself. This was exactly the state in which Mr. John Dalrymple Lauderdale, who held His Majesty's commission and was a lieutenant in the 42nd Lancers, and a young gentleman of very ardent temperament and high spirits, found himself on this particular morning.

He had been in love with Millicent Oxenham, Sir Nicholas Oxenham's daughter, ever since she was a girl of fifteen, and he at Wellington. In his holidays they had fished together, played all manner of games together, sometimes quarrelled and always made it up on the instant. Then, of course, there had been no talk of love; they were comrades and healthy young animals. But when Lauderdale entered the Army he was almost immediately packed off, first to Gibraltar, and then to Malta, and subsequently to Egypt, and there had been a blank of nearly four years during which they never saw each other. Then Lauderdale came home and found a beautiful young woman where he had left a still-growing girl, and they had looked at each other—and it was all over.

And, last night, at Lady Tremlingham's ball, he had asked Millicent to marry him, and she had told him that she had never dreamt of marrying anybody else. And now Lieutenant Lauderdale felt as if he were intoxicated with the finest ether.

How many times he pulled out his watch as he waited about the entrance to the gardens Lauderdale did not know, but he knew very well that, like all lovers, he had come too early to his appointment, and that his lady-love would not be late.

"Of course she'll be punctual," he said to himself. "Millie always was punctual. She always keeps a promise."

Then he caught sight of her coming along the walk just within the Park, and hurried to meet her. A minute later and they were strolling side by side across the grass under the trees, and a couple of nursemaids, whose charges were sound asleep, sighed involuntarily.

"Ah, it's easy to see they're pretty badly smitten with each other!" said one. "Lor', ain't it good to tell—see him look at her, same as if he could eat her?"

"They're a fine-lookin' couple," said the other dreamily. "Looks like them lords and ladies what you read of in the story-papers. But you never can tell."

The objects of these remarks walked slowly away beneath the trees towards the quietest part of the gardens. Like all lovers, at this very early age of an engagement they talked little, and then only in the barest commonplaces, for there is nothing so tongue-tying as love just revealed and answered. And when they came to a quiet place beneath a tree, and sat down on two chairs conveniently placed there, they did not talk at first, but, for some reason or other, took a long look at each other's faces.

Millicent was the first to break the silence. She laughed softly.

"Why do you stare at me so—Jack?" she said.

"Stare! That wasn't staring, Millie. That was—making up for lost time. Remember, until three weeks ago, I hadn't seen you for four long years."

"I sent you my photograph—twice," she said.

"I know. But photographs haven't any colouring, and what's worse, they've no power of suggesting any," said Lauderdale sententiously. "And your colouring's your great beauty. I never thought you'd turn out such a beauty, Millie. Don't you remember what a—well, yes, what a gawky young party you were, when you used to climb trees and do all sorts of unladylike things? You were all legs and arms, and your hair was—carroty!"

Millicent laughed. Without being wrongly proud of the fact, she knew that she was beautiful, that her figure was as perfect as her complexion, that her eyes had the true violet tint, and that her luxuriant hair, about which Lauderdale had often teased her when they were boy and girl comrades, was of that wonderful golden-red which artists dream of and rarely find in life. And she was womanly enough to be glad of her beauty for her lover's sake.

"You weren't a good-looking boy, Jack," she said. "Your mouth was too big, and you used to have such lots of freckles, and such big hands, and you were always tearing your clothes. And now …

She paused and looked at him dreamily through half-closed lids.

"Well?" said Lauderdale smiling. "Are you sizing me up?"

"I think you're a very handsome man," she said simply. "Very! Mrs. Hamilton said so last night. I—I felt—proud."

Lauderdale laughed and laid a very brown and masterful-looking hand on the girl's wrist.

"We must always be proud of each other," he said. "Dearest—am I to speak to your father tonight? And did you speak to your mother?"

Millicent nodded her head. At the mention of her mother a slight look of pain crossed her face and her eyes grew sad.

"Yes," she said. "I told her this morning. She was very glad, dear, as I knew she would be. But, Jack, I hope we shall never have to be far away from her, that you won't want me to go abroad, to India or anywhere, because I'm sure, from the hints that Dr. Ingram gives us guardedly, that she may never be able to leave her room again."

"I don't think there's any fear of that, dear," said Lauderdale. "You see, we're only just home after twenty-one years' foreign service, so there'll be a long spell here. You shall not be out of touch with her."

Millie pressed his hand.

"Thank you, Jack," she said. "That's what I do wish—while she lives. It's dreadful for her to be a confirmed invalid, as she has been now for three years, unable to leave her room, and she's dependent so much on me for company. But as to your speaking to Father—yes, I think you might do so tonight, because, so far as I know, no one but yourself is coming to dine. Of course he may ask someone during the day—he often does, and telephones at the last moment to say so. Mr. Bartenstein, for example, often comes with him."

Lauderdale frowned.

"That chap!" he said. "I can't stand him, Millie."

"I loathe him," said Millie. "I even detest him! But he and Father are such close friends that I have to be civil to him. However, I don't expect him tonight, because he was there last night. So, if there is no one there but you, Jack, you might speak to Father after dinner."

"Yes," said Lauderdale. "That's what I meant to do."

"The only thing," said Millie thoughtfully, "the only thing is——"

She paused and tapped the ground with the point of her shoe.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Lauderdale.

"I was going to say that you had better see if he is in—not exactly a good temper, but in a fitting mood," she replied. "Lately I have been a little troubled about him. When he has come home from the City he has seemed worried, and now and then he has been rather irritable, and in the evening, instead of his old methods of spending it, he shuts himself up in his study and seems to be working at figures."

"Doing some big deal, very likely," said Lauderdale. "Those big financial chaps are like that sometimes, I believe. However, I'll look for my opportunity. I don't see what objection he can have, dear. I'm pretty well off in this world's goods; I've a clean record, and certainly no dark spots to cover up, and no debts; and I shall have the baronetcy when Uncle Dick goes—I'm an eligible parti, I think."

Millie laughed and pressed his hand again.

"Quite!" she said. "I don't think my father will have the least objection, Jack—it's only that lately, if one wants to ask him anything, or consult him in any way, one has had to choose one's time with some care. I—I have been wondering if——"

"Yes?" said Lauderdale, as she paused. "If what, dear?"

"If he was in any financial trouble," she answered. "Twice lately he has scarcely touched any dinner, and his appetite at breakfast is certainly not good."

"Oh, it may be as I said, that he's doing a big deal with some of the foreign governments, said Lauderdale. "When you're dealing with millions, as Sir Nicholas does, why, you naturally feel a bit hipped."

"But he has always been dealing with millions and things ever since I remember," said Millie, "and he was always so jolly and good-tempered until recently. I confess," she added, after a pause, "I confess, Jack, I have been rather bothered about him. Lately, too, Mr. Bartenstein has always been at the house, and he and Father have sat in the study for hours at night, apparently doing business. And—I don't like Mr. Bartenstein."

"I should think not—rather!" exclaimed Lauderdale. "He makes me think of—of a fried-fish shop!"

Millie laughed.

"Never mind," she said. "Let's talk of something else."

There was nobody near at hand to eavesdrop, and for some time Lieutenant Lauderdale and Miss Oxenham continued to play the parts of whispering lovers 'neath the shade, with the result that, when they rose, each looked well satisfied with the morning's tête-à-tête.

Lauderdale walked back with Millie to Sir Nicholas Oxenham's house in Sussex Square, and left her there with a promise to come that evening half an hour before dinner. He went away with a light heart.

The girl's heart was light too as she ran up the steps. Nor did anything warn her of any coming evil as the old butler admitted her.

"What a glorious morning, Basset, isn't it?" she said cheerily. "Glorious!"

"A splendid day, miss," answered the old man. He paused a minute to lower his voice. "There's Mr. Bartenstein here, miss, in the library—to see you, miss."

Book the First, Chapter II.

CHAPTER II

MR. BARTENSTEIN'S ULTIMATUM

Millicent Oxenham, from her healthy bringing-up and active childhood, was a young woman who was not conscious of possessing nerves, and certainly knew nothing of fear. But when she heard that the man for whom she had an instinctive dislike, a loathing which she had never even tried to account for, was waiting to see her, she was suddenly conscious of feeling afraid for the first time in her life—afraid in a vague, discomposing way. She felt herself looking at the old butler with a strained face as she turned to him in surprise.

"Mr. Bartenstein! Waiting to see me, Basset?" she exclaimed.

"In the library, miss," replied Basset. "He's been waiting half an hour. He said he would await your return, and that I was not to mention his presence to my lady."

A sudden definite fear seized upon Millicent. She grasped Basset's arm unconsciously.

"Oh, Basset!" she said. "Is it—can it be that anything has happened to—to my father?" The butler shook his head.

"I shouldn't think so, miss," he said. "I feel sure that Mr. Bartenstein would have mentioned the matter to me, if that had been the case."

Millicent nodded her head, and turning away, went slowly across the hall to the library door. Old Basset stepped swiftly and noiselessly past her, and opened the door before she could lay hands on it. She stepped in, still wondering, still feeling that vague fear which she had never known before. The door closed behind her. She was alone with Mr. Bartenstein.

Whatever might have been the grounds on which Lieutenant Lauderdale and Millicent Oxenham founded their mutual dislike of Mr. Marcus Bartenstein, it was certainly not his personal appearance which would have made him disagreeable to most people. Looking at him casually most people would have considered him a very good-looking man. Presumably about five-and-forty years of age, he was extremely well-set-up, tall, well-proportioned, and evidently in the best of condition and health. There was very little of the Semitic in his face; his nose was, perhaps, a little curved; his lips, perhaps, a little thick; his jaws, perhaps, a little heavy. But he had a good forehead, powerful eyes, with the instinct of force and command in them, and he was groomed to perfection.

Just as perfect was his attire: his morning coat fitted his fine figure like a glove, his white waist- coat was irreproachable, his trousers a marvel, his boots a dream of brightness. There was nothing loud or obtrusive about Mr. Bartenstein: his watch-chain was a plain affair of gold; his black cravat, tied with unerring precision, was ornamented with a single pearl pin of great beauty. And all over him there was an air of quiet dignity and power. Millicent felt, as he bowed to her, that whatever else this man might be, self-control was with him a virtue.

Mr. Bartenstein probably noticed some signs of agitation in Millicent's face as she met him, and was quick to surmise the cause.

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Oxenham," he said quickly, as she shook hands with him. "There is nothing the matter—you perhaps thought I came from your father, as he has not been well lately. No—I saw him an hour ago and he was quite well."

He handed her to a chair and took one near her.

"I am sorry if you were startled at my call," he said. "It is, of course, quite unusual for me to call here in the morning. The truth is, I wanted to see you—alone."

Millicent continued to watch him. Inwardly she was speculating as to the reason of his visit. Something told her that he was there for no good reason, but she would have found it difficult to explain why.

"You are aware, Miss Oxenham," continued Mr. Bartenstein, in his smooth, even voice, "you are aware, of course, that your father, Sir Nicholas, and I have for some time been closely connected in business matters."

Millicent bowed her head without speaking. What, she wondered, was he going to tell her? Instinctively she thought of her father's recent alteration of habits and temper.

"Have you noticed, Miss Oxenham, that Sir Nicholas has of late seemed somewhat harassed, troubled in mind?" asked Mr. Bartenstein.

"Yes," answered Millicent.

"You have no idea of the cause of his altered behaviour?" he said.

"No," she replied. "I thought—feared he might have business troubles."

Mr. Bartenstein brought his chair nearer and spoke in a low voice.

"You feared rightly, Miss Oxenham," he said. "He has business troubles—and very serious ones."

She made no remark upon this, but continued to watch him.

"They are so serious," he went on, "that they are irreparable. The true fact of the case is—your father is ruined."

She uttered a sharp cry of pain—Mr. Bartenstein's face remained immovable. His eyes watched her steadily.

"Do you mean that he is hopelessly and irretrievably ruined?" she said.

"Hopelessly and irretrievably ruined," he repeated after her. "The right words, Miss Oxenham."

"I do not understand," she said dully. "I thought my father was a very rich man."

Mr. Bartenstein smiled. His face was not so pleasant when he smiled as it was when in repose. His smile made Millicent shudder.

"Your father has been a very rich man," he said. "But of late years he has had many serious losses. Recently he has been engaged in a tremendous transaction which he trusted would be successful and enable him to make those losses good. The transaction has not been successful. He is ruined."

Millicent sat knitting her trembling fingers. On one of them was a ring which John Lauderdale had placed there that morning—she held it now as if she might gain some strength from it.

"Does—does he know?" she asked, forcing herself to look at her visitor, though she knew that tears were in her eyes.

"He will know during the afternoon," said Mr. Bartenstein. "At present he is wondering what is to happen. About four o'clock he will know the truth. And then, Miss Oxenham, he will come to me for help. Because I am the only man who can save him."

Millicent listened in silence. A terrible fear that she had not heard all that Mr. Bartenstein had to say was creeping over her—her quick woman's wit was already suggesting things. She sat as if she were in some awful dream.

"The only man who can save him," repeated Mr. Bartenstein with emphasis. "Mind that, Miss Oxenham. The only man out of all the men he knows—the one, only man!"

Millicent forced herself to speak. It seemed to her that everything was a long way off—that her voice sounded to her a long way off—that the happy morning, and the sunlight, and her lover were far, far off, indeed.

"Are you going to save my father?" she asked, with dry lips.

Mr. Bartenstein rose from his chair, walked across the room to the window, and coming back, took up his stand on the hearth-rug, and looked down at Millicent's bent head.

"Miss Oxenham," he said, "I will save your father. But only upon one condition."

"And that is——" she whispered.

"That you become my wife," he replied.

He saw the girl's fingers tighten, he heard her catch her breath in a despairing sob. But no change took place in his own face. He sat down again and went on speaking in the same even tones.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "And listen to what I have to say before you speak. It seems immaterial to say just now what I feel for you, because that must be evident. I want you to consider other matters which are of moment. Remember, first of all, that I am a very rich man—I am worth at least three millions——"

"Oh, don't, please!" she said entreatingly.

"It is a matter worth knowing," he said dryly. "Secondly, after my ten years in the House of Commons I have great influence with my party. In fact, it is a settled matter that I receive a peerage at the coming Dissolution. Then——"

Millicent wrung her hands.

"Please, Mr. Bartenstein!" she exclaimed.

He went on without heeding her.

"Thirdly," he said, "although you have never seen it, you are aware that my town house in Princes Gate is one of the most beautiful in London, and that it contains an almost priceless collection of art treasures. In addition to that I am negotiating for the purchase of Everstowe Park, one of the finest places in Buckinghamshire, while …

Millicent's mood suddenly changed. She leapt to her feet and confronted Mr. Bartenstein with flushing face and blazing eyes.

"Mr. Bartenstein," she exclaimed, "you are insolent!"

"On the contrary, I am explicit," he said calmly. "I wish to inform you exactly of what it is I am offering you. In addition to all these good things, which no sensible woman would refuse, I offer to save your father and to provide against any chance of a future reverse in his fortunes. I also offer you the handsomest settlements."

Millicent, who had retreated towards the door, stared at him. In her eyes there was as much wonder as there was indignation.

"So you believe in buying a wife!" she said.

"Not at all; far from it," he answered. "I believe in an honourable contract, and I wished you to know what I have to offer you. As for the rest, I will be a good husband to you—you shall never have cause to regret marrying me. I am a man of my word."

Millicent looked at him steadily.

"Mr. Bartenstein," she said, "I will not marry you. I don't want to seem rude, or to hurt your feelings, but I would not marry you to save my life, even if it were ten thousand times dearer than it is (and it is dear now, for Jack's sake, she added in her heart). Understand me, I will not marry you!"

Mr. Bartenstein was watching her with apparently impassive eyes.

"I think you will," he said quietly.

"You think I shall!" she exclaimed angrily. "How dare——"

"I think you will," he repeated. "You will—for your mother's sake. Listen, Miss Oxenham. You do not appreciate what your father's ruin means. He will have literally nothing. This house will go—everything in it will go—you will all be paupers. Your mother is a hopeless invalid—are you going to allow her to spend the last days of her life in poverty, when it is at your option to see that she spends them in luxury? Think the position over."

He picked up his hat, gloves, and walking-cane, and made as if to leave the room. Millicent drew away from the door and spoke again.

"Mr. Bartenstein," she said, "if you have any real affection for me, you will have some pity for me and mine. I love someone else—and—I am engaged to be married."

But Mr. Bartenstein made no sign.

"I am not surprised to hear that," he said. "It makes no difference to my offer. As I said before, think the position over, Miss Oxenham. This evening you will see your father, whom I shall have seen before then, but to whom I shall not say a word of the offer I have made you. I shall arrange to see him tomorrow at one o'clock. I shall call here to see you at noon. Upon your answer to me depends my final reply to him."

Then he went out of the room, and Millicent was left alone.

Book the First, Chapter III.

CHAPTER III

DESPAIR

For some little time after Mr. Bartenstein's departure Millicent sat alone in the library feeling as if all the world had grown dark. The events of the morning had followed one upon the other so quickly that she could scarcely realize their significance; she felt stunned, not only mentally, but physically, as if she had just been through a serious accident. She had risen that morning feeling herself the happiest girl in the world, and had gone forth to meet her lover with a heart as light as the June winds that played about her. She had come back from their meeting happier than ever, and had felt strongly tempted, when the old butler opened the door to her, to catch him round the waist and dance him across the hall. And then had fallen this awful blow, like some great black cloud suddenly blotting out the sun.

She could not yet believe it. Ruin, dishonour, perhaps for her father—poverty for them all—and for herself a dreadful alternative. If Mr. Bartenstein could have seen into Millicent Oxenham's heart just then he would have known what it is to be soundly hated. She had always disliked him; now she thought of him with a hatred which was all the deeper because it was foreign to her nature, affectionate and sunny as it was, to hate anything. She clenched her hands as she thought of him—probably because, in her tom-boy days, now far off, Jack Lauderdale had taught her something about boxing.

"Beast!" she said to herself, between set teeth. "How I should like to thrash him! And it may be that he is at the bottom of all this trouble. Oh, if my poor father had never known him or brought him here!"

Then, feeling how impotent poor women are, however adept they may be in hunting and riding and driving and certain other things, she shed a few quiet tears and was very unhappy, as indeed she had good reason to be, considering that her day-dreams had suddenly been torn to shreds and her palace of shining things pulled down about her ears. But Millicent was not the sort to waste time in wailing and weeping, and ere long she had dried her eyes and informed herself that this was not the time for nonsense, but for a display of higher qualities. And feeling that she was doing the wisest thing open to her, she dispatched a telegram to Lieutenant Lauderdale, in which she asked him to come to her half an hour earlier than they had first arranged upon. After which she forced herself to assume her usual manner and went to attend her invalid mother.

But in spite of all the girl's attempts to be cheerful and to hope for the best, and to put faith in whatever counsel her lover might give her, she was in a state of terrible despair, especially when Lady Oxenham had gone to sleep in the afternoon and she had no one to talk to. She wished someone would call; then she fervently hoped that no one would; she was restless and uneasy and could settle to nothing. And as the time drew near for her father's return from the City her agitation became so great that she was thankful there was no one there to notice it.

It was Sir Nicholas Oxenham's custom to leave his office at half past four every afternoon, and, not being a man who cared much for frequenting clubs, to drive straight home, where he usually amused himself in his library with his books, prints or coins, until it was time to dress for dinner. Tea was always ready for him in the library, and Millicent made a strict point of being there when he came in, to attend to any little want which he might have. She was there on this particular afternoon long before he came, fidgeting about and wretched with anxiety.

"He said—that beast—that Father would know at four o'clock, and that then he would go to him," she murmured. "That may make him late. And the news—the bad news may have made him ill. If he's not here at half past five, I shall telephone to the office."

But at five o'clock, just as if nothing had happened, she heard her father's voice in the hall, and in another minute he came in, looking much as usual, except that he seemed tired and walked rather slowly.

"Are you very tired today, Father?" she asked, when she had kissed him and put him into his favourite chair.

"Well, my dear, I am a little more tired than usual," replied Sir Nicholas. "I have had rather a trying time of it this afternoon. I have asked Basset to bring me a little brandy-and-water—I will drink it before you give me my tea."

She watched him narrowly, as he sat sipping at his glass, when Basset had left the room, and it suddenly struck her with a pang that he was aging faster than seemed reasonable. He was a handsome old man, tall and slender of figure, with a clean-shaven, intellectual face, a strong chin and an aquiline nose—his daughter had always been proud of him, just as he was something more than proud of her. She noticed now, looking more narrowly at him than she had done for some time, that his hair was not only getting thinner, but that it was changing rapidly from grey to white; she noticed, too, that there were fresh lines about his eyes and his mouth. And once more Mr. Bartenstein's sinister words made her heart heavy as lead.