Back Aa

Princess Galva, The

<h3> CHAPTER VI </h3> <h4> AT THE UNION HOTEL, PENZANCE </h4> There was a quietude about the little front dining-room in Belitha Villas that was very soothing to the somewhat strained nervous systems of Mr. and Mrs. Povey. Each in their accustomed positions and chairs they gazed into the small fire that was burning brightly in the grate. Upon the table were the remains of lunch. Charlotte's expression was one of repose, but her husband's brows were contracted as he puffed at his pipe, which was not to be wondered at considering he was turning over in his mind how he was to acquaint Mrs. Povey with his intended departure. "I am expecting, Charlotte," he began at last, his eyes fixed meditatively upon a hissing jet of gas that was escaping from the coal, "to be leaving the country shortly on business." Mrs. Povey, who during the last three days had ceased to show or even feel surprise at anything her husband said, merely remarked, "Oh!" dully. "Yes, my dear, and I want you to shut up the house—I have my reasons—and take rooms at Abbot's Hotel during my absence." At this the lady became rather sarcastic. "Or the Ritz, Edward, it seems to me that——" Mr. Povey held up a silencing hand. "I don't want to hear what it seems to you, my dear, I want you to go up to Abbot's and take a suite this afternoon. I intend to allow you—er—five pounds a week, Charlotte; I think that should be sufficient." The surprise that the good lady would not allow herself to show had at least the effect of keeping her silent. Her husband rose and went out into the hall, returning immediately with his hat in his hand. "I am going out, my dear, and will call back in an hour with a cab. You needn't unpack the things, we'll take them with us." For fully ten minutes after Edward's departure Charlotte sat in thought before the fire, and then rose to take a look round the house before leaving it. It was strange for this woman to be thus doing the bidding of a man for whom she had hitherto had such scant respect. The change that opportunity had worked in her husband would not have been welcome to her but for the promise of better times that his words and actions suggested. She could not but look forward to the suite at Abbot's, the hotel in Bloomsbury at which they had dined two or three times during their married life. As she walked slowly from room to room she found herself picturing the glories that were to be hers, the lofty dining-room with its pillars of marble and the windows with the long red curtains. Then her thoughts ran to the five weekly pounds that were to be hers also, and she wondered if Edward meant her to pay for the suite out of them. She dressed herself in the best that her wardrobe afforded and gathered together a few personal belongings into a small hand-bag, which, together with the trunk and portmanteau they had that morning brought from Bushey, she placed in the hall to await her husband's return. It was four o'clock when Edward softly closed the front door of No. 8, Belitha Villas, and with Charlotte and the luggage clattered away in the decrepit old four-wheeler which he had fetched from the rank. As they turned the corner, Edward, who had been idly gazing from the window, drew back sharply into the shadows of the vehicle. He signalled the driver to stop, and getting out, walked carefully back to the corner, where, with his eyes, he followed the movements of two men who were looking up at the numbers of the houses. They paused at No. 8, and pushing open the gate marched up to the door. Edward saw one of them knock, then he hurried back to the cab. "Just in time—I thought so," he muttered. He then told the cabman to drive to King's Cross station. Arriving there he dismissed him, and taking another cab deposited his silent but wondering wife at the door of Abbot's Hotel. Then, after booking the suite of rooms, he left her, and entering a passing taxi was driven to St. Mary Axe. ***** A few days following the hurried and undignified evacuation of No. 8, Belitha Villas, a smart and exceedingly well-groomed little man was contentedly sitting in a front private room of the Union Hotel at Penzance. The intervening days had been very busy ones indeed for Mr. Edward Povey, and ever since the Cornish Riviera train had set him down on the shores of Mount's Bay he had considered that a complete rest was due to him. Besides, he told himself that it wanted two days yet till the 15th of November, and until that date he had no need to pay his visit to the heiress to the throne of San Pietro. He had seen her once driving a smart little governess cart through the quaint and steep streets of the Cornish town, and he had found out her identity from the unsolicited testimony of the aged waiter who had noticed him looking at her. "There she goes, bless her, the best little woman and the best heart in the Duchy," he had said, crossing the room to the window and letting his eyes follow the dainty little lady as she leant out of her trap to give an order to the grocer who had left his shop and stood rubbing his hands together on the curb. Edward had asked who she was. "That's Miss Baxendale, sir, her who lives out to Tremoor Churchtown; not a man in West Cornwall who doesn't worship the ground she drives over—no, nor a woman either, which is saying a goodish deal. When my wife was down with sciatic, sir, she didn't want for naught, she——" But Edward was not listening, he was gazing spell-bound at the object of the old man's talk. And a picture she made well worth the regard. Miss Baxendale had now descended from the "jingle" and was standing chatting to the grocer in his doorway. Edward Povey looked in admiration at the trim little figure clad in its well-made white mackintosh that reached almost to the heels of the tiny brown walking boots. Her face was turned three-quarters towards him, and for the first time he began to doubt his wisdom in entering upon the adventure. Curiously enough the personality of the Princess had not entered into his calculations, he had looked upon her merely as a unit in the scheme as a whole, a spoke in the wheel of the undertaking. Now he asked himself what he was to do with this perfect creature, a very queen among girls, a being whose every look and gesture spoke of the highest breeding and culture, a girl in whose presence he could not but feel awkward and ill at ease. He had half an idea then and there of abandoning the whole affair, and going back to London, but second thoughts brought back memories of two deserted houses and pointed out to him that he had gone too far to retreat. It was a momentary return of the Edward Povey of a few weeks ago, of the personality he had striven to put behind him. He alone of all people knew the history of this lovely girl, and in his possession were the papers and trinkets given him in his final interview with Mr. Nixon, all the evidence which proved the high descent of the Princess. In his hands alone was her future. He remembered, too, the generous balance now standing to the credit of himself, Mr. Sydney, in the Royal Bank of Spain. To this, as he was pleased to read Mr. Baxendale's letter, he felt himself quite entitled, as the one who had undertaken the mission. Before leaving London he had burnt his boats beyond redemption, and to give in now would not only mean a return to the old hated life, but he feared he had laid himself open to criminal proceedings. Charlotte he had provided for and had left that estimable lady in a state of delighted bewilderment at Abbot's Hotel, and the thought of returning to her, for both their sakes, was distasteful to him in the extreme. After all, why should he not go on with the matter to which he had put his hand? Although a clerk, Edward Povey was one of those quiet-mannered men who can pass muster anywhere and in any society can hold their own by reason of their ability to efface themselves when necessary. He had been well educated and was possessed of a soft and careful diction. Also he was endowed with the most valuable knack of adapting himself to circumstances. As he turned from the window he caught the reflection of himself in the large gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, and although he had seen the same reflection but a few minutes previously it now took on a new significance. If anything had been needed to endorse his decision to go on with what he had begun he found it in the picture, for he was confronted with a vastly different aspect of himself to that he had been used to as shown by the little cracked looking-glass in the counting-house of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company in Eastcheap. He saw a trim, dapper little person, looking not a day older than thirty-eight, with a keen, clean-shaven face that bordered on intellectuality. The gold-rimmed spectacles which framed his mild blue eyes together with his thinning hair gave him even a scholarly aspect. Edward had made good use of his newly acquired cheque-book, and he noted with satisfaction that the dark grey suit he had bought in Jermyn Street fitted him to a nicety. His linen was spotless, and a small black pearl showed with a dull richness in his dark blue tie. A thin gold chain across his waistcoat and a signet ring with a deep claret-coloured stone gave a touch of well-being to his appearance. His glance left the mirror and travelled down to his well-cut trousers, thence to his brown brogued shoes. Yes, he was eminently presentable, and as he turned again to his easy chair and his paper, he laughed at the recent doubts that had assailed him and which now were falling from him like water from the proverbial duck. It was a local journal of little interest and he read on for some moments listlessly, then with a smothered cry of astonishment he turned the paper more to the light and his listlessness gave place to concentration. There under the heading of London Topics was something which set the blood racing through his veins. THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS REMARKABLE SEQUEL TO THE MURDER OF MR. KYSER THE MYSTERY OF THE BUSHEY COTTAGE (Special to the "Evening Post") "It will be remembered that the Post was the first to report, a few days ago, the mysterious death in Paris of Mr. Sydney Kyser, a partner in the great firm of Spanish Bankers and Merchants of Eastcheap. Our reporter in an interview with Mr. Schultz has discovered that there seems to be far more beneath the mystery than was at first supposed. "It appears that the deceased gentleman's departure from London was unknown to any one, not excepting Mr. Schultz himself, and as a meeting between the partners, to go through the scrip of certain Spanish bonds in the possession of the firm, had been fixed for the following day, Mr. Schultz was naturally astonished at the non-appearance of his partner. This astonishment gave place to consternation when it was discovered that the safe containing the bonds, of which only himself and Mr. Kyser knew the lock combination, had been rifled. "Enquiries at Mr. Kyser's house in Grosvenor Square elicited the fact that the housekeeper in charge was also unaware of her master's absence from England, taking for granted that he was at his cottage at Bushey Heath, a little property at which Mr. Kyser was fond of spending a few days from time to time. "Mr. Schultz thereupon dispatched two of his trusted clerks to make enquiries. Their report is disquieting in the extreme. Adderbury Cottage had certainly been in occupation since Mr. Kyser's death. This fact was evident from a fire still burning in the grate in the dining-room and from the remains of breakfast upon the table. The only people near were the representatives of Mr. Kyser's solicitors, who had evidently read in the Post of their client's death. These gentlemen, together with Mr. Schultz's two clerks, made a thorough search of the cottage. On all hands was evidence that the occupants, whoever they were, had made a very hasty departure. "A clue, however, was obtained by one of the solicitor's men who made a tour of the near-by cab yards. He elicited the fact that a vehicle had been hastily ordered from one of them on the previous evening, and that the cabman had driven an elderly lady and gentleman to Bushey station. His fares seemed to him to be in a very disturbed state of mind, the gentleman especially so. The cabman thought that they were man and wife because he swore so. "This couple leaving so hurriedly on the evening on which Mr. Kyser's death was reported in the Post is, to say the least of it, suspicious, and they have been traced to some extent. They took first-class tickets for Euston, travelling by the 9.49 train. In London all trace was lost of them, but a porter states that they were seen again early the next morning entering the 7.10 for Birmingham. Here the scent is lost for the present, though from the minute descriptions furnished by the different railway officials and the cabman of Bushey, the suspected man bears a great resemblance to a well-known manufacturer in the Midlands. It seems, however, absurd to identify this prosperous and much-respected man with Mr. Kyser and his affairs. "Another matter which causes some speculation is the fact that the caretaker of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices asserts that he saw his master in company with a clerk who had that day been dismissed, enter a grill-room in Gracechurch Street. The two representatives of the firm after leaving Bushey called at this clerk's address in Clapham, only to find that this house, too, had evidently been hastily vacated in much the same manner as Adderbury Cottage. "There, for the present, the mystery rests. The police, who have been communicated with, are, in the mean time, doing their utmost to trace the elderly gentleman and lady who took the train to Birmingham." Mr. Povey put down the paper and whistled softly to himself. Then as he thought of poor Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza, the mirthful side of the affair took him and he laughed for ten minutes. He rang the bell and told the waiter that he thought he would take a Scotch whisky and a small Apollinaris. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.