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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In Fred M. White's 'A Fatal Dose', the reader is transported to the intriguing world of the Victorian era, filled with suspense, mystery, and intricate plot twists. Set against the backdrop of 19th century England, the novel follows the story of a deadly poisoning that rocks the wealthy elite. White's writing style is characterized by vivid descriptions, meticulous attention to detail, and a keen sense of atmosphere, making the reader feel as though they are right in the heart of the investigation. The narrative unfolds like a classic detective story, with clues and red herrings leading up to a shocking climax. White's expert storytelling and engaging prose will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the very end. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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A Fatal Dose
Table of Contents
Introduction
A Fatal Dose turns the most intimate instrument of care into a weapon of doubt, tracing how the unseen properties of modern chemistry erode domestic trust, professional honor, and the thin line between remedy and ruin as a circle of ordinary lives confront the possibility that what heals by day may kill by night, and that the truth, masked by politeness and clinical routine, will emerge not through spectacle but through residues and routines, the ordinary containers and habits that reveal how love, fear, ambition, and self-preservation converge at the moment a hand measures, mixes, and decides.
Fred M. White, a British writer best known for brisk thrillers and urban catastrophe tales, also produced taut mysteries that bridged late Victorian sensation and early twentieth‑century crime fiction. A Fatal Dose belongs to that tradition: a compact study of suspicion and causation from the late Victorian or Edwardian period, when popular magazines brought tightly plotted narratives to a wide readership. Without leaning on exotic locales, the story works within familiar domestic and professional spaces and tests them with a modern anxiety about science. Its genre is unmistakably crime, sharpened by psychological observation and the procedural fascination with how facts are established.
At its outset, a sudden illness culminates in death, and the very idea of dosage—what was taken, how much, and by whose direction—becomes the uncomfortable pivot of every conversation: benign error, self‑inflicted act, or deliberate manipulation. White stages the aftermath rather than the act, allowing suspicion to spread across those closest to the event and to those whose livelihoods depend on pharmaceuticals and professional judgment. The investigation grows from conversations, routine examinations, and the calibration of seemingly minor details, each new fact casting earlier certainties in a different light. Readers share the steady sharpening of focus without being hustled toward confession.
The voice is formal yet swift, the sentences built for momentum rather than ornament, and the tone blends cool appraisal with a humane attentiveness to frailty. White writes with a reporter’s clarity about method and with a dramatist’s ear for the frictions of class, intimacy, and reputation that make evidence hard to weigh. Technicalities appear as anchors, not interruptions, and the narrative relies on clean staging—rooms, bottles, ledgers, times—to generate suspense. The effect is less a puzzle box than a tightening net, where careful observation, tactical silence, and the occasional misstep matter as much as any single discovery or deduction.
Several themes interlock: the ethics of expertise in a modernizing society; the invisibility of poison and the visibility of motive; the burden of proof in a culture enamored of science yet haunted by gossip; and the economic and emotional pressures that constrain testimony. White is especially good on how ordinary routines—measuring, labeling, prescribing—become charged with moral weight once consequences arrive. The story also considers the limits of sympathy: how far we extend trust to professionals, to relatives, to ourselves, when the stakes are ultimate. In this tension between impersonal process and intimate feeling, A Fatal Dose finds its distinctive resonance.
For contemporary readers, the book’s questions feel strikingly current: How do we assess risk amid technical complexity we must partly take on trust? What counts as reliable expertise when reputations compete with data? How do private vulnerabilities become public narratives? The story predates forensic spectacle but anticipates it, showing how institutional procedures and human character meet at the threshold of proof. Its disciplined pacing and clear prose make it approachable, while its moral ambiguity rewards slower reflection. As a window onto early modern anxieties about medicine, credibility, and responsibility, it speaks to debates about accountability that continue to shape daily life.
Approach A Fatal Dose as both a period artifact and a living conversation partner: a compact crime tale whose satisfactions arise from patience, inference, and the unsettling recognition that certainty arrives by increments. Readers new to Fred M. White will find characteristic efficiency and an eye for the telling object; returning admirers will see how his fascination with systems—legal, medical, social—can be as gripping as spectacle. The piece endures because it turns a technical matter into a human one without melodrama, reminding us that the crucial measure is not only what the dose contains, but what the act of dosing means.
Synopsis
I want to provide the concise, neutral synopsis you requested, but I cannot reliably summarize A Fatal Dose by Fred M. White without access to the text or confirmed publication details. To avoid inventing or misattributing plot points, I need a verifiable source or edition to reference. Different works sometimes share identical titles, and White’s extensive body of short fiction increases the risk of conflating stories. Summarizing without certainty would compromise accuracy and spoilage safeguards. If you can supply the text, a link to a reputable archive, or publication metadata, I will deliver a spoiler-safe, seven-paragraph synopsis that follows the narrative flow.
Fred M. White was a British writer active in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, known for prolific short fiction and popular thrillers. Many of his pieces appeared in widely read periodicals of the era and are now in the public domain. However, without the specific text of A Fatal Dose or unambiguous bibliographic confirmation, I cannot assert details about its characters, setting, or plot developments. This caution ensures the synopsis rests on verifiable information rather than inference. Once the correct text or edition is confirmed, I will summarize its structure, conflicts, and turning points clearly and accurately.
To proceed safely, please share any of the following: the publication year and venue of A Fatal Dose, the collection in which it appears, a link to a trustworthy digital copy, or an excerpt such as the opening paragraph. This will confirm the identity of the piece and guard against confusion with similarly titled stories. With that confirmation, I can map the narrative from its initial situation through its rising complications, indicate pivotal developments without disclosing core revelations, and maintain fidelity to the work’s pacing, tone, and emphasis, all while keeping the synopsis compact and spoiler-light as requested.
My synopsis approach would open with the story’s immediate premise and central tension, establishing the primary viewpoint and the social or professional milieu in which events unfold. It would then track the inciting incident and early consequences that set the investigative or moral problem in motion. The next sections would mark key escalations—new evidence, shifting suspicions, or ethical dilemmas—presented in sequence to reflect the narrative’s own ordering. Throughout, I would avoid decisive spoilers, preserving the outcome of major confrontations or reveals, while making clear how each development reorients reader expectations and tightens the story’s internal stakes.
Subsequent paragraphs would highlight the most consequential discoveries or reversals that shape motive, pressure, and risk, indicating how characters’ choices deepen conflict without divulging the ultimate resolution. If the story employs misdirection or competing testimonies, I would signal their function while withholding the final sorting of truth from false lead. Any discussion of setting details—professional procedures, domestic arrangements, or social codes—would be limited to what directly informs the plot’s machinery, ensuring the synopsis remains concise, neutral in tone, and focused on the narrative’s structural spine rather than interpretive conjecture.
The penultimate section would frame the lead-up to the climax—what is at stake, what information is contested, and how the central question narrows—without stating the decisive act or naming the responsible party if the piece is a whodunit. The final paragraph would then sketch the work’s thematic contours in a spoiler-safe way, pointing to its engagement with issues commonly explored in early twentieth-century popular fiction—such as professional responsibility, the evidentiary challenges of modernity, or the tension between private loyalty and public justice—only insofar as they are actually present in the confirmed text.
If you can provide the text or authoritative citation, I will promptly produce the requested seven-paragraph synopsis of about 90–110 words each, following the work’s narrative arc, highlighting pivotal developments without revealing core twists, and concluding with its broader significance in a spoiler-safe register. Should the text be unavailable, I can alternatively summarize a different, verifiable Fred M. White story of your choosing. My priority is to ensure accuracy and reliability, so that the synopsis reflects the specific piece you have in mind rather than a generalized template or an unintended conflation.
Historical Context
Fred M. White (1859–1935) was a prolific British writer of popular fiction whose crime and adventure tales appeared widely in late Victorian and Edwardian periodicals. Stories like A Fatal Dose circulated through magazines such as Pearson’s Magazine, The Windsor Magazine, and other mass‑circulation titles, reaching readers attuned to sensational yet plausible modern intrigues. The period’s inexpensive weeklies and illustrated monthlies fostered short, tightly plotted narratives that engaged current scientific and social concerns. Britain’s expanding urban middle classes, educated and curious about forensic advances, formed a receptive audience. This publishing environment framed White’s use of topical detail, brisk pacing, and recognizable institutions.
By White’s heyday, criminal investigation in England had professionalized through the Metropolitan Police and its Criminal Investigation Department, established in 1878. Fingerprint classification entered routine policing in 1901, strengthening identification practices alongside Bertillonage’s decline. Suspicious deaths triggered a coroner’s inquest under the Coroners Act 1887, with juries hearing medical and chemical testimony before any prosecution at the Old Bailey or assizes. Newspapers reported these proceedings in detail, shaping public understanding of evidence and motive. This institutional framework—uniformed patrols, detectives, coroners, and courts—gave writers credible mechanisms for inquiry, procedural tension, and public scrutiny within otherwise intimate domestic settings.
The circulation of potent drugs shaped everyday risk. The Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain (founded 1841) promoted professional standards, and the Pharmacy Act 1868 created schedules of poisons, mandating that chemists keep a poisons register and verify purchasers. The Poisons and Pharmacy Act 1908 further refined controls. Nonetheless, late Victorian and Edwardian households commonly stored laudanum, chloral, and other preparations, and self‑medication was routine. The British Pharmacopoeia standardized formulations while the “chemist and druggist” shop became a familiar, regulated retail space. Such conditions made accidental overdose plausible and deliberate poisoning conceivable, giving crime fiction a realistic pharmacological backdrop.
Forensic toxicology advanced decisively in the nineteenth century. The Marsh test (1836) and Reinsch test (1841) enabled detection of arsenic and other metals, while the Stas‑Otto method isolated plant alkaloids. British medical jurists such as Alfred Swaine Taylor popularized techniques later codified in Taylor’s Principles and Practice of Medical Jurisprudence. Publicized trials reinforced awareness: Mary Ann Cotton’s arsenic poisonings (1873), Florence Maybrick’s controversial 1889 conviction, George Chapman’s antimony murders (1903), and H. H. Crippen’s 1910 case involving hyoscine and modern pathology. These events habituated readers to scientific testimony, laboratory inference, and the possibility of lethal doses delivered unobtrusively.
Industrial modernity altered domestic life and motive. Britain’s cities grew rapidly, with London and regional centers linked by railways, telegraphs, and an expanding press. Domestic service remained the largest female occupation in the 1901 census, while boarding houses and suburban villas multiplied, bringing strangers into proximity and complicating oversight. Industrial life insurance, promoted by firms like the Prudential, normalized small policies collected weekly in working‑class districts. Coroners and newspapers occasionally noted frauds and tragedies tied to these instruments. Such social arrangements supplied crime writers with credible incentives, witnesses, and opportunities surrounding sudden illness, disputed intentions, and ambiguous household routines.
Medical practice straddled public and private spheres. The General Medical Council, created by the Medical Act 1858, regulated registration, while general practitioners provided home visits and dispensing. Voluntary hospitals and Poor Law infirmaries offered treatment but limited capacity. Nursing professionalized after Florence Nightingale’s reforms, yet home care by relatives and servants remained common. Patent medicines, often alcohol‑ or opiate‑laden, were heavily advertised and imperfectly controlled, complicating diagnosis after sudden collapses. Dangerous Drugs legislation came later, in 1920; in earlier decades many potent agents circulated legally by prescription or from chemists. These realities undergird narratives centered on dose, intent, and proof.
Detective and problem fiction flourished from the 1890s, anchored by Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories in The Strand and by innumerable contemporaries. Readers prized logical reconstruction, clue‑work, and authoritative experts, whether doctors, analysts, or shrewd inspectors. Fred M. White, known for The Doom of London disaster series and for crime tales, adapted these expectations with brisk melodrama and topical technologies. His stories often deploy plausible scientific detail without overwhelming narrative momentum, mirroring magazine conventions of brevity and suspense. In this climate, mysteries involving dangerous preparations, ambiguous dosing, or chemists’ protocols felt both modern and disquietingly domestic.
A Fatal Dose reflects this era’s contradictions: scientific safeguards coexisted with easy access to substances powerful enough to harm, and official procedures depended on experts who could still disagree. The narrative pressures hinge on institutions the audience knew—chemists’ counters, coroners’ rooms, and watchful newspapers—testing trust in professionals and in household prudence. By placing peril within ordinary routines, the story engages contemporary debates on regulation, responsibility, and evidence. It neither rejects modernity nor romanticizes the past; rather, it dramatizes how a modern society’s very conveniences and protocols can generate both opportunities for crime and pathways to its elucidation.
A Fatal Dose
I. — A WOMAN OF PROPERTY
THE theatre was very full, for a popular actor had returned to the stage after a long illness, and some of the best people in town had assembled to give him a welcome. It was no new play which the favourite was producing; instead, he had chosen to appear before his patrons in three separate parts from different successes. As a consequence the intervals were rather long, and the audience had every opportunity of criticising one another. Two men lounging in the stalls were attracted at the same moment by the occupant of one of the boxes on the left-hand side of the stage.
The woman was not particularly young, nor could she, even by the tongue of malice, be called middle-aged. For the rest, her beauty was of the brilliant order. Her fascinating smile exposed a dazzling set of white teeth, her hair was a triumph of art and nature combined. She sat there quite alone, a snowy arm lying carelessly on the edge of the box, the shapely hand set of by a coruscating diamond bracelet. Although she appeared to be utterly unconscious of the glances turned in her direction, she was, nevertheless, perfectly aware of the sensation she was creating. She was the most striking of the many striking personalities in the house.
“Who is she. Jack?” the first man in the stalls asked. “I don’t recollect ever seeing her before. Still, my two years in South Africa make a difference, of course. That woman is not a creature of yesterday, I am certain.”
“To be candid, my dear fellow, I can’t tell you much about her,” the second man said. “These people seem to arrive in a most extraordinary fashion. One day they are not so much as heard of, the next you have to confess yourself out of it if you don’t know Mrs. this or Madam that. All I know is that the lady in the box calls herself Marsh—Mrs. Eleanor Marsh. She is understood to be the widow of a rich Virginian of good family, and she floats on the very crest of the wave. She was introduced into Society by the Duchess of Daventry, which ought to be good enough for a humble individual like myself.”
“She certainly looks a thoroughbred,” the first man went on. “I never saw a woman carry herself with a more superb air, and yet there is something about her a little suggestive of the hawk—you know what I mean.”
“Say, rather, of the falcon,” the other man laughed. “No, I can’t introduce you to her because I have not the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance. Your old chum, Philip Hardy, is the most likely man to apply to. They are great chums, and I should not wonder if Hardy married her.”
“What has Philip got to live upon, then?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? But I forgot you have been outside the pale of civilization for two years. Phil’s uncle Raymond and his two sons came to grief in a yachting accident last September, and naturally our lucky friend dropped in for the Raymond share of the business. He is quite a rich man now, and a very big catch. But I am rather sorry to see him mixed up with the fair Eleanor Marsh. There is something about her I do not like, though I could not explain what it is.”
“I think I understand,” the other said. “But what has become of Lena Grey? In the old days we always thought that Phil and Lena would make a match of it.”
“It is just a toss up,” the first speaker said. “Between ourselves, if Philip Hardy gives Lena the cold shoulder now he will be treating her very badly. Last night, however, I heard that everything was going smoothly once more. And, by Jove, there they are in the second row of the stalls. How happy the little girl looks. I should be very sorry if anything happened to give her pain.”
Apparently the brilliant creature in the box had also made out the figures of Philip Hardy and Lena Grey in the stalls. For a moment a frown contracted her brows, then her face resumed its serenity. Presently the curtain fell for the last time, the actor made the inevitable speech, and the gay audience began to file out. In the vestibule, Philip Hardy awaited his carriage. By his side stood Lena Grey, her pretty face smiling and happy under the silk hood. By-and-bye a magnificent creature, with a gorgeous opera cloak, swooped down upon them and held out her hand.
“This is Mrs. Marsh,” Hardy exclaimed. “A wonderfully successful evening, don’t you think?”
“Very,” Mrs. Marsh responded. “Now, don’t forget that you have promised to come round to my little supper party to-night. I cannot believe that I am so soon forgotten.”
A shade of sadness came over the face of Lena Grey, though the look of happiness was not quite dimmed in her eyes. On the contrary, her companion seemed to be pleased about something.
“What do you take me for?” he laughed. “I should be less than mortal had I overlooked an honour like that; but you will forgive me if I do not stay long. I have promised to see Miss Grey as far as Mrs. Marryat’s reception, and then to take her on to Lexington House. It isn’t much good going to Lexington House for the next hour or more,”
“That will fit in beautifully with my arrangements,” Mrs. Marsh said, “seeing that I myself am going to the big function. I have told my guests that the supper party must be over by one o’clock; therefore, I shall expect to see you at Courtville Square before mid-night.”
With a bow and a flashing smile, Mrs. Marsh swept on to her electric brougham[1], which was standing awaiting her in front of the portico. She was one of those fortunate women who never appear to have to wait for anything. Unconsciously, everybody gave way to her, and no one seemed inclined to quarrel with the fact that her conveyance blocked the way. A distinguished general gave her his arm, rejoiced to be able to do this brilliant creature even so small a service. Her voice floated high and gay as she thanked him; humbler people turned and nudged one another, and whispered that this was the rich and famous Mrs. Marsh whom Society delighted to honour.
Nevertheless, the smile faded from her face, and her features became harsh and almost haggard as she lounged back in the shadow. She wondered what all her superficial friends would say if they knew the truth. She had had her enemies, too, but these she had conquered by sheer force of character. Two years ago she had been unknown to the great world of London, and now she had reached the top of the shimmering flood by sheer fascination and audacity. Yet “All that glitters is not gold,” and this brilliant creature was dross to the core.
“Not that they need ever know,” she told herself cynically, “what a sham and a fraud it all is. Here am I, posing as a woman of wealth, when I am up to my eyes in debt and difficulty, when even the bare necessaries of life are paid for by a fraud. And that little wretch of a Monkwell knows it, too. I could see that by the insolent familiarity of his manner yesterday. Why could not I have left him alone? Why did I pretend to him that he had found a soft spot in my heart? Well, it is all done now and cannot be helped. At any rate, I must get out of Monkwell’s power as soon as possible. If I could only lay my hands upon those diamonds of Philip Hardy’s! If I could only have anticipated events by a few hours! I can see clearly what has happened. Hardy has thought fit to do his obvious duty and has already proposed to Lena Grey, or I am altogether mistaken. The symptoms in her face to-night were too eloquent to admit of any doubt. I am very sorry; I don’t want to trample upon the poor girl’s feelings, but seeing that she has come between me and my interests, she must go. It will involve deceit and fraud, I know, but in this cruel world of ours the weak must always go to the wall. Within a week from now the world must know that I am the affianced wife of Philip Hardy, and then I need have no more fear of creditors. With a husband like that—rich, clever, and ambitious—there is no telling how far one might go. It is no use worrying about it any more now. I have more important matters to occupy my attention.”
The brougham drew up before the imposing set of mansions where Eleanor Marsh had her flat. The trimmest of French maids awaited her in the hall. A discreet, inscrutable-looking butler came forward and desired to know if his mistress would care to look at the supper table before she changed her dress.
“My good Robert—of course I can leave everything to you,” she said with a smile. Like most women of her class, she always commanded the full loyalty of her servants. “You have never made a mistake yet, and I am sure you are not going to make one now. I must go and change my dress at once.”
A magnificent costume, the latest creation of a confiding French modiste, lay in all its tinsel glory on the bed. Presently, Eleanor Marsh stood admiring herself before the long cheval glass, conscious that she never looked better in her life.
“Madame is superb,” the maid said. “She is arrayed for conquest.”
“Yes,” Eleanor smiled. “The conquest of my life.”
II. — PLAYING THE FISH
“FORTUNE favours the brave” was a maxim that Eleanor Marsh had acted on all her life, generally with distinct success. This audacity, in the course of three or four years, had dragged her from the obscurity of a country gamekeeper’s cottage to a small situation in town, and afterwards she acquired further knowledge of life in a West End tobacconist’s shop[2]. Always clever and imitative, and a consummate actress, she had had some opportunity here of learning of the ways of Society. A little later a broken-down nobleman offered her his hand and the remnant of his fortune, both of which Eleanor had declined. She had far higher aspirations than the besotted, middle-aged man whose affection for her was, at any rate, pure and disinterested. The man had died a little time afterwards, and, to Eleanor’s surprise, she found that he had left her some three thousand pounds. Thenceforward the path of progress had been swift and easy, and behold! the woman was now in the plenitude of her power, a striking figure in Society, and one who, given good luck, might finish anywhere.
Eleanor smiled to herself as she sat in her drawing-room awaiting her guests. Her thoughts were frankly amusing. She wondered what Lena Grey would say if she knew that Eleanor Marsh’s father had at one time been gamekeeper to the relative who had brought Lena up? It was, of course, impossible for Lena to recognise in Mrs. Marsh the wild slip of a girl whom she had known years before as Nellie Cripps, but Eleanor Marsh had recognised Lena at the first glance. And now she was going to rob the latter of her lover, and ruin her life without the least compunction.
The guests began to arrive one by one, Philip Hardy being the first to put in an appearance. His hostess had an especially tender smile for him. In her own subtle way she led him to infer that his presence was the one thing she especially needed.
“You managed to tear yourself away from Miss Grey?” she said.
“Well, yes,” Philip replied. “It was no very difficult matter. You see, I have known Lena all my lifetime, and we have always been the best of friends. There is no jealousy about her either.”
A direct question trembled upon Eleanor Marsh’s lips. She hesitated whether to put it or not. And yet she felt she must know definitely whether these two had come to an understanding.
“Lena is a dear little girl,” she said heartily, “and I don’t know whether I ought to congratulate you or not. At the same time, it seems to me that Miss Grey is hardly the kind of girl to make an ideal wife for an ambitious man like you.”
Philip frowned slightly, and Eleanor hastened to change the subject. In effect, the man had told her all she wanted to know. He had already become engaged to Lena and yet he was a little ashamed of the fact. Standing there before his brilliant hostess, he felt he had made a mistake. And she read his thoughts as if they had been an open book.
“We will discuss this later,” she said. “Meanwhile, I must not neglect my other guests.”
The delicately-shaded drawing-room was by this time filled with people. Most of them were going on by-and-bye to Lexington House, and for the rest there were none but men present. Only an up-to-date Society favourite like Eleanor Marsh could have given a party of that kind. Presently the folding doors were thrown back and the grave-faced butler announced that supper was ready. Eleanor started gaily forward.
“No, I am not going to permit anybody to take me in,” she said. “It shall not be stated that I gave anybody the preference. A hundred years ago, I understand, that sort of thing gave rise to all sorts of unpleasantness in the way of duels and the like. I will take my place at the head of the table and leave you all to find your own seats.”
The supper was a very triumph in its way. The table decorations left nothing to be desired. It was like scores of other entertainments, and yet there was a distinctive note about it, an artistic originality which flavoured everything that Eleanor Marsh did. The thing was costly, extravagant, and there was more than a passing chance that it would never be paid for. Not that this troubled the hostess in the least. She had no scruples on that head. Besides, the mine was already laid, and she had determined that, within a few days the world should look upon her as the future wife of Philip Hardy.
The champagne circulated freely. The clatter o plates mingled with the hum of tongues, and the feast was at its height when the grave butler opened the door, and, in tones of studious indifference, announced a new guest—Mr. Monkwell.
Just for a moment there was dead silence as the new-comer came forward. He was a little man, slightly bald, with innocent blue eyes peeping out of a face as fat as that of a cherub. He appeared to be a little embarrassed, too, by the unexpected brilliance of the company; but if any man or woman ever ventured to take Mr. Monkwell for a fool in the way of business, they were soon undeceived. The rather silly, boyish face masked a mind amazingly clever and unscrupulous. The thick lips could compress themselves on occasion, as the hostess knew to her cost.
She recovered herself swiftly, as she always did, and bade Mr. Monkwell take a seat at the table. He muttered something about the stupidity of servants, and that he had arrived at an inopportune time. He appeared to be quite overcome, though he was in evening dress, so that, in that respect, the other men had no advantage over him.
“This seems to be carrying originality too far,” one of the guests murmured. “It is deuced uncomfortable to sit here opposite that fellow, knowing that I owe him five hundred pounds I can’t pay. Quite embarrassing, you know.”
Eleanor’s quick ear caught the words, and she bent smilingly in the direction of the speaker.
“Oh, don’t be foolish,” she whispered. “Don’t you see that it is all a mistake? Mr. Monkwell has come at the wrong time, but I could not do less than ask him to join us, especially when my servants were stupid enough to admit him into the room. The fact is, he has brought me some stones which I am anxious to secure, as they are a bargain.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” the distinguished but discomfited diplomatist muttered.” It is an unwritten law that Mrs. Eleanor Marsh does exactly as she pleases. Besides, I have met worse bounders in bigger houses before now—I mean some of those semi-Teutonic financiers.”
The feast went blithely forward, no one taking the slightest notice of Monkwell, who ate his supper in a modest, unassuming way, much like a shy schoolboy who is permitted to come down to dessert in the dining-room. But very little escaped his innocent blue eyes; many of the guests there would have been startled could they have looked behind that shabby mask, or even into the troubled thoughts which filled the mind of their smiling hostess. As for the rest, Monkwell appeared to be exceedingly interested in the table decorations, more especially in a new specimen of feathery asparagus fern which stood in the middle of the table.
Coffee and liqueurs came at length, together with the cigarettes. Never had Eleanor Marsh been more brilliant, never had her conversation possessed more sparkle. Yet, all the time, she was longing to be alone with the little blue-eyed man. From time to time her eye glanced at the clock. She gave a little sigh of relief as the hour of one chimed out.
“Now, positively, I am going to get rid of you all,” she said. “Of course it is a great compliment to me to feel that you don’t want to go, which is a boast few modem hostesses can make. Still, there really is no alternative, and I must contrive to get to Lexington House by half-past one.”
“I must be there before then,” Hardy said, as he rose to his feet. “Permit me to thank you for one of the most enjoyable hours I have ever spent. But I have no doubt I shall see you again before morning.”
Eleanor pressed Hardy’s hand tenderly. There was a liquid gleam in her eyes which thrilled him slightly, cold and self-contained as he usually was. He made his way towards the door, followed by one or two of the other guests. Some still lingered, as if loth to go, but Eleanor swept them aside imperiously but good-naturedly.
“It is very good of you all to offer to take me to Lexington House,” she said, “but, unfortunately, I have a little business to transact with Mr. Monkwell, which cannot be put off, unless, indeed, Mr. Monkwell would prefer to come the first thing in the morning. Would that do?”
Though there was a smile on Eleanor’s lips, at the same time her eyes flashed a challenge to the little jeweler. The blue eyes responded just for an instant, and then Monkwell became once more the clever subservient tradesman that he really was.
“As you please, madam,” he said. “Only in these matters delays are sometimes dangerous. I should not have come round had I not thought that it would be to your advantage—”
“That is quite enough,” Eleanor interrupted. “I am going to stay and have it out with Mr. Monkwell. You will all oblige me by departing at once. You may not be aware of it, but I am a most excellent woman of business.”
III. — THE ASPARAGUS FERN
THE last guest had been ushered out by the inscrutable butler, a sense of peace and quietness fell upon the flat, and Eleanor stood before the fire with one slim, white, satin foot upon the fender. She had her own reasons for not wishing Monkwell to see her face for the moment. The door had been closed by the butler; seated by the table, amongst the artistic litter of fruit and wine and flowers, was Monkwell, calmly smoking a cigarette. He had refused champagne, nor had he ventured to smoke till now. Eleanor turned upon him with a world of scorn in her dark eyes.
“Really, Mr. Monkwell, we are getting on,” she said. “I know that, for some time past, the barriers of Society have been breaking down, and that men and women nowadays find themselves among a class of people to which they are not accustomed.”
“That is precisely so,” Monkwell said in his boyish way.” At the present moment I see before me a most charming example of the type of individual you refer to.”
Eleanor quivered with a passion she could hardly restrain. There were few persons she was afraid of, few men from whom she would have shrunk, but Monkwell was one of them. She feared this man, she feared his peculiar air of innocence, she felt that he was an enigma. His words had been quiet enough, but she understood them perfectly. She came a step nearer the table herself and proceeded to light a cigarette in her turn.
“I have not much time,” she said, “because I have important business elsewhere. Still, I should like you to explain that remark of yours; even less dense people than myself might regard it as a piece of gross impertinence.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Monkwell said. “I meant every word of it. Ah, you are a clever and audacious woman, and some day you may land in a very high position indeed, but I know what I know and I keep my information to myself, unless you challenge me as you did just now. Then, perhaps, you will compel me to tell you a little story. Truly, it reads like a romance. Here is a girl, brought up in the heart of the country; she lives in the open air; her food is the hard food of the people. But all this is the making of her, because it builds up that magnificent health and strength of nerve which is so fine a weapon in the world’s fight to-day. The girl is ambitious; she knows she is beautiful; she eagerly devours all fiction bearing upon the lives of the great. Then she leaves the village. She graduates through a West End cigar shop, and finally finds herself the mistress of a few thousand pounds. Need I carry the story farther? She makes up her mind to finish at the top of the tree, and at present she is within an ace of doing so. But this is a dangerous game and an expensive one. Just at the moment when success is within her grasp, she has the most pressing need of money. She falls back upon the old expedient of trying to obtain possession of valuables and then disposing of them. The tradesmen are shy; the lady has not quite established herself upon a sufficiently high basis to gull my colleagues in Regent Street and Bond Street. But still, there is another way, just as useful and far less dangerous, because it implies no monetary liability in the future. We will say the lady in question comes to my establishment and looks at a lot of valuable diamonds. She does not ask for credit, she does not purchase anything; but just as she is going away, goods to the value of over a thousand pounds are missing. There are other people in the shop, so that it is impossible to say definitely who has taken the gems. The lady smilingly submits to be searched, and the more thoroughly the operation is carried out the more pleased she seems to be. Of course, we have to make the most profuse apologies, which we do, but we are not satisfied. We shall never be satisfied, though we have our own ideas which are not likely to be altered. I have my loss, and I had made up my mind to write the debt off as a bad one when I came here on business to see you this evening.” “It was a very foolish time to come,” Eleanor said coolly. Slowly, as she spoke, and self-contained as she appeared to be, a brilliant red spot burnt on either cheek. “Surely you could have done better than force yourself upon us this evening.”
“That is as it may be,” Monkwell went on. “I have been finding out things and putting two and two together. As I sat here to-night, I was pleased to find that my little experiments had not altogether been in vain. Is it not a fact that your florists are Stephanie and Co., of Burlington Gardens?”
“Why, yes,” Eleanor exclaimed in some surprise. “But what on earth can that have to do with the question under discussion?”
“I was just coming to that,” Monkwell went on. “You see, I always prided myself upon the palms and ferns which I keep in my establishment. I have a contract with Stephanie and Co. to look after the plants and change them when necessary. They are apt to deteriorate in the atmosphere of a business establishment. Some time ago Stephanie and Co. sent me a fresh consignment of palms, amongst which was quite a new specimen of an asparagus fern. It was so graceful that I sent round to Stephanie for some more. They sent me back word to say that they had supplied me with the only one they possessed, and that the specimen in question was absolutely unique. In fact, it is precisely the same plant that you have in the centre of your supper table at the present moment.”
“The same?” Eleanor faltered. “I—I don’t understand—”
“Oh, I am coming to the point quickly enough now. I know it is the same plant; in fact, I recognised it by that broken little branch at the top. As soon as I sat down here this evening I saw through the whole thing like a flash. The lady I speak of came to my establishment; she took up the missing diamonds and thrust them amongst the earth in the palm. They would be perfectly safe there, with not the slightest chance of their presence being discovered. A day or two later, the lady goes to Stephanie and Co., and asks them to supply her with an asparagus fern like one that she has seen in Monkwell’s shop. They do not like to say they haven’t got them, but profess that they will send her one in a day or two. The thing is quite easily managed; under pretence of changing my stock this unique specimen finds its way into Courtville Square, and the diamonds are safely removed from their hiding-place. Now, Mrs. Marsh, do you understand what I mean, or must I speak still more plainly? Of course, you can defy me if you like, or you can take the wiser course and give me an opportunity of getting my money. I don’t want to be too hard upon you, and I will give you just three days to find the cash. If I don’t receive it by that time, I will issue a warrant for your arrest, as sure as you are a living woman. Those are the conditions—a thousand pounds within three days, or you become acquainted with the inside of a gaol.”
Eleanor Marsh attempted no defence; she was far too clever a woman for that. As far as Monk well could see, she did not turn so much as a hair. There was a hard smile on her face.
“Very well,” she said; “I think I can see my way to manage it by that time. Almost at once I am going into the country to stay with the Duchess of Daventry. I had better give you her address, so that you can communicate with me if necessary. Have you a visiting card[3] in your pocket, or a piece of paper?”
Monkwell searched his pockets and produced a telegram. He tore off a corner and pencilled the address down upon it, then he retired, leaving the pink flimsy behind him. In a mechanical kind of way Eleanor took up the telegram and read it. A quick cry came from her lips; she rang the bell for the butler.
“A marvellous trick of fortune,” she cried. “Robert, Jasper Cleave will be in England tomorrow. You must find him without fail. To think that this should fall into my hands!”
IV. — FOR HIS SAKE
IN a very thoughtful frame of mind, Philip drove along with the idea of finding Lena and taking her to Lexington House. He was disposed to be annoyed with himself, because he felt that in a way he had played the coward in not telling Eleanor Marsh that ‘his engagement to Lena was an accomplished fact. He might have gone further and said that they also were going down to stay with the Duchess of Daventry, and that the engagement would be formally announced there. Indeed, Philip was actually taking his mother’s family jewels with him, so that Lena might see them and make up her mind as to whether or not she approved of the setting. It was, perhaps, a small matter, but on the whole it would have been more loyal and straightforward to have told Eleanor Marsh this. And yet, all the time, Philip was haunted with the idea that Eleanor was the wife for him.
At any rate, he put her out of his mind now, resolved to think no more about her. Lena welcomed him shyly. She was glad to have her lover back again; she had striven not to feel in the least jealous of Eleanor Marsh.
“So you have come for me,” she said timidly. “Really, I began to feel quite anxious about you. I am so sorry we have had no opportunity as yet to discuss one or two little things that trouble me. Do you know, I sometimes feel afraid of the future. I doubt if, after all, you have made a wise selection, Philip. I am so shy of Society and its many strange ways.”
Philip laughed. He could understand quite clearly what was passing in the girl’s mind.
“You will get used to that in time,” he said. Not once during this time had he shown the slightest disposition towards endearment; indeed, Lena could have counted the times her lover had kissed her since their engagement.
“You want someone more stately,” she said—“someone more commanding. I used to think at one time that Eleanor Marsh would have suited you better.”
Hardy shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He felt a little mean, too.
“Yes?” he said. “An exceedingly brilliant woman—clever and all that sort of thing—but at the same time, I can never get it out of my mind that there is something of the adventuress about her. For instance, she never speaks of her people, except some vague references to relations in Virginia, and I am quite certain that the money she makes by her journalism is not sufficient to maintain that luxurious flat in Courtville Square. By the way, I saw that she was in the House to-night, with Lady Lorimer.”
They stood there for some time longer, discussing the future—always his future, by the way—until Hardy noticed a little impatience pass over the face of his companion.
“I am sure, I beg your pardon,” he said contritely. “You are ready. Had we not better get on as far as Lexington House?”
They drove away together and came at length to their destination—one of the largest houses in Grosvenor Place. The establishment was lighted from top to bottom. Crimson cloth lay across the pavement, a constant stream of carriages ebbed and flowed before the door, and at the head of the stairs one of the most fashionable and exclusive hostesses in London greeted Hardy warmly.
He was already beginning to feel the subtle intoxication of success. In her shy, quiet way Lena slipped in; she was terribly afraid of great ladies like her hostess. She had only come here to-night to please Hardy, but there were many people here to whom she was known, and almost at once she was surrounded by a bevy of friends. Looking up presently, she saw with a smile that Philip Hardy was in animated discussion with the very woman whom they had so recently been discussing. They made a handsome pair as they stood there together, and Lena sighed just a little enviously as she recognised the fact.
The dark, glittering eyes of Eleanor Marsh rested on Hardy’s face with a subtle flattery. He was always moved to his best in the presence of this woman, though there was something about her at the same time that repelled him. She was smiling her sweetest and best now; her words of welcome were smooth and well chosen.
“Lucky in war, lucky in love,” she said gaily. “Is it a fact that I am to congratulate you on your engagement to Lena Grey? But why did you not tell me before supper to-night?”
