Chapter XXX

[Jules Farman sends to Henry Gastonard some account of his stewardship.]

The----Inn, Hampstead,
October 16th, 1905.

Dear Sir,--I am sending this by a trusty hand to the New Travellers’ Club in Piccadilly as your esteemed instructions command me.

I have to-day viewed the body of the murdered man and am glad to tell you that I was immediately able to identify him. He is the Count d’Antoine, who had an apartment in the Rue Boissiers at Paris, and is far from being unknown to our best society.

I had the honour to be employed by the Count some three years ago upon a mission whose particulars do not concern us. He was of an old family of the Antoines, of Picardy, a well-known shot and horseman, and by no means an idle member of the Jockey Club. During recent years his fortunes have been at a low ebb, but he made friendships which served him well, particularly that of the Marquis de Saint Faur, who will be desolated to hear this grievous news.

I will say at once that I am utterly unable to imagine any cause of association between Madame Gastonard and this poor gentleman. He was not a frequenter of the artistic world; had, to my knowledge, no interest in books and pictures; had set foot in Montmartre perhaps twice in the whole course of his life. This I am able to tell you because I found it necessary to go into the details of his career somewhat closely when I had the honour to act for him.

I am compelled, Monsieur, to address you very plainly, and to speak at this moment as I would hesitate to do at any other. The assumption upon the part of the police in London that Count Antoine had been at one time the lover of Madame Gastonard is not supported by any evidence, and is to me entirely incredible. I shall refuse to give serious consideration to such a supposition until I am compelled to do so by testimony I cannot refuse. And I would beg you not to bestow upon it a second thought.

We are therefore confronted by this perplexing fact: That a man, distinguished in French society, but knowing nothing of London, goes over to England to see a lady of whom he had no previous knowledge; that he visits her in a remote quarter of the city when she is alone; that he is followed there by others and murdered in her very presence. To this there can be but one explanation. The Count d’Antoine was the instrument of some secret embassy; he desired to see Madame alone; but his purpose was known to others, who followed him, and defeated it at the last moment. Let us analyse the more material evidence for this.

And first, the desire to see Madame alone. Is it possible to believe that the Count’s arrival at the moment of your absence could have been coincidence--especially when your own habits are remembered, and the rare occasions when you quit your house after nightfall? More probable in every way is the assumption that he had watched the house for some days, waited patiently for his opportunity, and availed himself immediately of your absence.

None the less, the fact is significant--for this is done, observe, not by a low fellow, possibly a blackmailer or a beggar, but by a French gentleman of position, one justly esteemed for his honourable actions, and quite incapable of any dishonour in this purpose. Here our difficulties begin; but here also I think that we begin to see the light.

Of this it will be time enough to speak when that light shines a little brighter, and is strong enough to lead us to some surer ground. My duty at the moment is to place the evidence before you in its simplest form, and to deduce therefrom such an hypothesis as may be both reasonably possible and no less serviceable to us. And here I ask you to observe that the Count d’Antoine would not have approached Madame as he did unless the disclosure which he had to make must be embarrassing to her or to others. The alternative is the assumption that he was her lover--an alternative so grotesque that I do not permit it so much as to appear in my reckoning.

No, Monsieur; the case is not one of those elementary studies of human folly or of human passion, with which the police of France are so often called upon to deal. It is the story of a man who carried a secret from France to London, who was followed thither by others who shared that secret with him, and determined either to prevent its disclosure or themselves to profit by it. Such unknown men shadowed the Count--it is possible that they watched the house as he watched it, and were themselves about to do what he would have done but for this tragic interruption. The question remains: Was their object that of blackmail, or did they act for some unknown persons who had determined to guard at any cost this imagined secret?

It is true, Monsieur, that the crime itself gives no clue to such a study of intention. At the first blush I might argue that the disappearance of Madame, who, I do not doubt, has been forcibly abducted from your house, points to the fact that blackmail is the issue; but we are not to forget that an alternative presents itself, and that these men having committed this crime, must for very safety’s sake also silence the solitary witness of it. So they abduct Madame, and hold her as a hostage either until they gain a place of safety or have purchased her silence in another way.

Of these alternatives, it is my sincere hope that the former approximates to the truth rather than to the latter. Men whose one desire is gain will resort to extreme measures reluctantly. I should fear less from the avowed criminals of Paris, who have a precious secret to sell, than from others whose projects may be more daring. Such evidence as I can collect helps me to the belief that it is with the criminals of Paris that I have to deal.

Permit me to recapitulate this evidence as briefly as may be.

And firstly, that of your neighbour, Captain Esmond, the officer of Marine who witnessed the Count’s arrival at your house. This he declares to have been within ten minutes of your departure--so proving that the Count was aware of your absence and desired immediately to avail himself of an unexpected opportunity.

Secondly, the evidence of the cabman Williams, who testifies that a small covered motor-car waited the third part of an hour or more at the corner of the street near by the great house, Bell Moor, and passed him later on near Swiss Cottage station, going at a great pace in the direction of Regent’s Park.

Thirdly, the evidence of the boy, Harry Carter, who spoke to the driver of the car and obtained an answer--he believes in the French tongue, but is unable to say; so ignorant of any other tongue is he.

Fourthly, the evidence of the servant girl, Cecily Rayner, who declares that she saw a man climbing over the garden wall of No. 4 about the hour of this crime, and that she mentioned the matter to her mistress, who immediately went out to the garden but discovered the house to be in darkness and heard no sound of any kind.

This, Monsieur, is our evidence. To me the conclusions are very natural:

1--That the Count was murdered almost immediately he entered your house.

2--That the assassin entered by the way of the garden, passed through your sitting-room, and struck the unhappy man while he was actually in conversation with Madame.

3--That this crime was so swift, so brutal, and so remorseless that your wife fell in a faint--and so lying was carried immediately to the carriage without being able to offer any resistance whatever.

4--That the assassin was either in the service of the Count, or so situated as to be in possession of his plans and intentions, and thus able to forestall them.

Such, Monsieur, is the result of the work I have had the honour to do for you. I confess with regret that we have dug but a poor foundation, and that the corner-stone of our house is yet to be laid. This task must be accomplished not in London but in Paris. I leave to-night by the boat train from Charing Cross and beg you to accompany me.

For in Paris alone, Monsieur, shall we discover why the Count d’Antoine visited Madame Gastonard, and what was the secret, so precious to him and to others, which he could disclose to her alone.

I have the honour to be, Monsieur,

Your obedient servant,
Jules Henry Farman.