The Great God Pan
feeling one sometimes has in a dream, when fantastic cities and
wondrous lands and phantom personages appear familiar and accustomed.”
Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round the room, possibly in
search of something on which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell on
an old chest somewhat like that in which the artist’s strange legacy
lay hid beneath a Gothic scutcheon.
“Have you written to the doctor about poor Meyrick?” he asked.
“Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to his illness and death.
I don’t expect to have an answer for another three weeks or a month. I
thought I might as well inquire whether Meyrick knew an Englishwoman
named Herbert, and if so, whether the doctor could give me any
information about her. But it’s very possible that Meyrick fell in with
her at New York, or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea as to the
extent or direction of his travels.”
“Yes, and it’s very possible that the woman may have more than one
name.”
“Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking you to lend me the portrait of
her which you possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter to Dr.
Matthews.”
“So you might; that never occurred to me. We might send it now. Hark!
what are those boys calling?”
While the two men had been talking together a confused noise of
shouting had been gradually growing louder. The noise rose from the
eastward and swelled down Piccadilly, drawing nearer and nearer, a very
torrent of sound; surging up streets usually quiet, and making every
window a frame for a face, curious or excited. The cries and voices
came echoing up the silent street where Villiers lived, growing more
distinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers spoke, an answer rang up
from the pavement:
“The West End Horrors; Another Awful Suicide; Full Details!”
Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a paper and read out the
paragraph to Villiers as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The
window was open and the air seemed full of noise and terror.
“Another gentleman has fallen a victim to the terrible epidemic of
suicide which for the last month has prevailed in the West End. Mr.
Sidney Crashaw, of Stoke House, Fulham, and King’s Pomeroy, Devon, was
found, after a prolonged search, hanging dead from the branch of a tree
in his garden at one o’clock today. The deceased gentleman dined last
night at the Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and spirits.
He left the club at about ten o’clock, and was seen walking leisurely
up St. James’s Street a little later. Subsequent to this his movements
cannot be traced. On the discovery of the body medical aid was at once
summoned, but life had evidently been long extinct. So far as is known,
Mr. Crashaw had no trouble or anxiety of any kind. This painful
suicide, it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind in the last
month. The authorities at Scotland Yard are unable to suggest any
explanation of these terrible occurrences.”
Austin put down the paper in mute horror.
“I shall leave London to-morrow,” he said, “it is a city of nightmares.
How awful this is, Villiers!”
Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly looking out into the
street. He had listened to the newspaper report attentively, and the
hint of indecision was no longer on his face.
“Wait a moment, Austin,” he replied, “I have made up my mind to mention
a little matter that occurred last night. It stated, I think, that
Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James’s Street shortly after ten?”
“Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes, you are quite right.”
“Quite so. Well, I am in a position to contradict that statement at all
events. Crashaw was seen after that; considerably later indeed.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I happened to see Crashaw myself at about two o’clock this
morning.”
“You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers?”
“Yes, I saw him quite distinctly; indeed, there were but a few feet
between us.”
“Where, in Heaven’s name, did you see him?”
“Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley Street. He was just leaving a
house.”
“Did you notice what house it was?”
“Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont’s.”
“Villiers! Think what you are saying; there must be some mistake. How
could Crashaw be in Mrs. Beaumont’s house at two o’clock in the
morning? Surely, surely, you must have been dreaming, Villiers; you
were always rather fanciful.”
“No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I had been dreaming as you say,
what I saw would have roused me effectually.”
“What you saw? What did you see? Was there anything strange about
Crashaw? But I can’t believe it; it is impossible.”
“Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw, or if you please, what I
think I saw, and you can judge for yourself.”
“Very good, Villiers.”
The noise and clamour of the street had died away, though now and then
the sound of shouting still came from the distance, and the dull,
leaden silence seemed like the quiet after an earthquake or a storm.
Villiers turned from the window and began speaking.
“I was at a house near Regent’s Park last night, and when I came away
the fancy took me to walk home instead of taking a hansom. It was a
clear pleasant night enough, and after a few minutes I had the streets
pretty much to myself. It’s a curious thing, Austin, to be alone in
London at night, the gas-lamps stretching away in perspective, and the
dead silence, and then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom on the
stones, and the fire starting up under the horse’s hoofs. I walked
along pretty briskly, for I was feeling a little tired of being out in
the night, and as the clocks were striking two I turned down Ashley
Street, which, you know, is on my way. It was quieter than ever there,
and the lamps were fewer; altogether, it looked as dark and gloomy as a
forest in winter. I had done about half the length of the street when I
heard a door closed very softly, and naturally I looked up to see who
was abroad like myself at such an hour. As it happens, there is a
street lamp close to the house in question, and I saw a man standing on
the step. He had just shut the door and his face was towards me, and I
recognized Crashaw directly. I never knew him to speak to, but I had
often seen him, and I am positive that I was not mistaken in my man. I
looked into his face for a moment, and then—I will confess the truth—I
set off at a good run, and kept it up till I was within my own door.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it made my blood run cold to see that man’s face. I could
never have supposed that such an infernal medley of passions could have
glared out of any human eyes; I almost fainted as I looked. I knew I
had looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin, the man’s outward form
remained, but all hell was within it. Furious lust, and hate that was
like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror that seemed to shriek
aloud to the night, though his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness
of despair. I am sure that he did not see me; he saw nothing that you
or I can see, but what he saw I hope we never shall. I do not know when
he died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, but when I passed down
Ashley Street and heard the closing door, that man no longer belonged
to this world; it was a devil’s face I looked upon.”
There was an interval of silence in the room when Villiers ceased
speaking. The light was failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was
quite hushed. Austin had bent his head at the close of the story, and
his hand covered his eyes.
“What can it mean?” he said at length.
“Who knows, Austin, who knows? It’s a black business, but I think we
had better keep it to ourselves, for the present at any rate. I will
see if I cannot learn anything about that house through private
channels of information, and if I do light upon anything I will let you
know.”
VII
THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO
Three weeks later Austin received a note from Villiers, asking him to
call either that afternoon or the next. He chose the nearer date, and
found Villiers sitting as usual by the window, apparently lost in
meditation on the drowsy traffic of the street. There was a bamboo
table by his side, a fantastic thing, enriched with gilding and queer
painted scenes, and on it lay a little pile of papers arranged and
docketed as neatly as anything in Mr. Clarke’s office.
“Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three
weeks?”
“I think so; I have here one or two memoranda which struck me as
singular, and there is a statement to which I shall call your
attention.”
“And these documents relate to Mrs. Beaumont? It was really Crashaw
whom you saw that night standing on the doorstep of the house in Ashley
Street?”
“As to that matter my belief remains unchanged, but neither my
inquiries nor their results have any special relation to Crashaw. But
my investigations have had a strange issue. I have found out who Mrs.
Beaumont is!”
“Who is she? In what way do you mean?”
“I mean that you and I know her better under another name.”
“What name is that?”
“Herbert.”
“Herbert!” Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment.
“Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures
unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face;
when you go home look at the face in Meyrick’s book of horrors, and you
will know the sources of your recollection.”
“And you have proof of this?”
“Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say
Mrs. Herbert?”
“Where did you see her?”
“Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in
Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the
meanest and most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an
appointment, though not with her, and she was precise to both time and
place.”
“All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You
must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary
adventure of London society, talking and laughing, and sipping her
coffee in a commonplace drawing-room with commonplace people. But you
know what you are saying.”
“I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises or fancies. It
was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs.
Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been
the issue.”
“You must have been in strange places, Villiers.”
“Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless,
you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a
short sketch of her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume,
that her record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain
that at some previous time she must have moved in circles not quite so
refined as her present ones. If you see mud at the top of a stream, you
may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I went to the bottom. I
have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my amusement, and
I found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very useful.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the
name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite
unable to describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The
people there know me; I have been able to do some of them a service now
and again, so they made no difficulty about giving their information;
they were aware I had no communication direct or indirect with Scotland
Yard. I had to cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I
wanted, and when I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it
was my fish. But I listened to what I was told out of a constitutional
liking for useless information, and I found myself in possession of a
very curious story, though, as I imagined, not the story I was looking