The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (ebook reader for pc .txt) 📖

out of

number, talking sensibly and calmly enough in the smoking room, and

then going upstairs to my bedroom and leaning out of my window, from

which a glimpse of the Strand was obtainable, to watch the constant

stream of passers by and to wonder if Bartrand were among the number.

I would imagine myself meeting him and enticing him into one of those

dark passages leading from the gas-lit thoroughfare, and then, when I

had revealed my identity, drawing a knife from my sleeve and stabbing

him to his treacherous heart. On another occasion I spent hours

concocting a most ingenious plan for luring him on to the Embankment

late at night, and arranging that my steps to my hotel, feeling about

as miserable as it would be possible for a man to be. What did life

contain for me now? I asked myself this question for the hundredth

time, as I walked up the sombre street; and the answer was,

Nothing—absolutely nothing. By judiciously investing the

amount I had inherited under my father’s will I had secured to myself

an income approaching two hundred pounds a year, but beyond that I

had not a penny in the world. I had been sick to death of Australia

for some years before I had thought of leaving it, and my last great

disappointment had not furnished me with any desire to return to it.

On the other hand I had seen too much of the world to be able to

settle down to an office life in England, and my enfeebled

constitution, even had I desired to do so, would have effectively

debarred me from enlisting in the Army. What, therefore, was to

become of me—for I could not entertain the prospect of settling down

to a sort of vegetable existence on my small income—I could not see.

“Oh, if only I had not been taken ill after Ben’s death,” I said to

myself again and again; “what might I not then have done?” As it was,

that scoundrel Bartrand had made millions out of what was really my

property, and as a result I was a genteel pauper without a hope of

any sort in the world. As the recollection of my disappointment came

into my mind, I ground my teeth and cursed him; and for the rest of

my walk occupied myself thinking of the different ways in which I

might compass his destruction, and at the same time hating myself for

lacking the necessary pluck to put any one of them into

execution.

 

As I reached the entrance to my hotel a paper boy came round the

corner crying his wares.

 

‘“Ere yer are, sir; ‘orrible murder in the West End,” he said,

running to meet me; and, wanting something to occupy me until

breakfast should be ready, I bought a copy and went in and seated

myself by the hall fire to read it. On the second page was a column

with the following headline, in large type:—

 

“SHOCKING TRAGEDY IN THE WEST END.” Feeling in the humour for this

sort of literature, I began to read. The details were as

follows:—

 

“It is our unfortunate duty to convey to the world this morning

the details of a ghastly tragedy which occurred last night in the

West End. The victim was Major-General Charles Brackington, the

well-known M.P. for Pollingworth, whose speech on the Short Service

Extension Bill only last week created such a sensation among military

men. So far the whole affair is shrouded in mystery, but, it is

believed, the police are in possession of a clue which will

ultimately assist them in their identification of the assassin. From

inquiries made we learn that Major-General Brackington last night

visited the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in company with his wife and

daughter, and having escorted them to Chester Square, where his

residence is situated, drove back to the Veteran Club, of which he is

one of the oldest and most distinguished members. There he remained

in conversation with some brother officers until a quarter past

twelve o’clock, when he hailed a passing hansom and bade the man

drive him home. This order was given in the hearing of one of the

Club servants, whose evidence should prove of importance later on.

From the time he left the Club until half-past one o’clock nothing

more was seen of the unfortunate gentleman. Then Police-Sergeant

Maccinochie, while passing along Piccadilly, discovered a man lying

in the centre of the road almost opposite the gates of the Royal

Academy. Calling the constable on the beat to his assistance, he

carried the body to the nearest gas lamp and examined it. To his

horror he recognised Major-General Brackington, with whose features

he was well acquainted. Life, however, was extinct. Though convinced

of this fact, he nevertheless obtained a cab and drove straightway to

Charing Cross Hospital, where his suspicions were confirmed. One

singular circumstance was then discovered—with the exception of the

left eyebrow, which had been cut completely away, evidently with some

exceedingly sharp instrument, there was not a wound of any sort or

description upon the body. Death, so the medical authorities

asserted, had been caused by an overdose of some anaesthetic, though

how administered it was impossible to say. The police are now engaged

endeavouring to discover the cabman, whom it is stated, the Club

servant feels sure he can identify.”

 

With a feeling of interest, for which I could not at all account,

seeing that both the Victim and the cabman, whom the police seemed

determined to associate with the crime, were quite unknown to me, I

re-read the paragraph, and then went in to breakfast. While I was

eating I turned the page of the paper, and propping it against the

cruet stand, scanned the fashionable intelligence. Sandwiched in

between the news of the betrothal of the eldest son of a duke, and

the demise of a well-known actress, was a paragraph which stirred me

to the depths of my being. It ran as follows:—

 

“It is stated on reliable authority that Mr. Richard Bartrand, the

well-known Australian millionaire, has purchased from the executors

of the late Earl of Mount Chennington the magnificent property known

as Chennington Castle in Shropshire, including several farms, with

excellent fishing and shooting.”

 

*

 

I crushed the paper up and threw it angrily away from me. So he

was going to pose as a county magnate, was he—this swindler and

liar!—and upon the wealth he has filched from me? If he had been

before me then, I think I could have found it in my heart to kill him

where he stood, regardless of the consequences.

 

After breakfast I went for another walk, this time in a westerly

direction. As I passed along the crowded pavements I thought of the

bad luck which had attended me all my life. From the moment I entered

the world nothing seemed to have prospered that I had taken in hand.

As a boy I was notorious for my ill-luck at games; as a man good

fortune was always conspicuously absent from my business ventures;

and when at last a chance for making up for it did come in my way,

success was stolen from me just as I was about to grasp it.

 

Turning into Pall Mall, I made my way in the direction of St.

James’s Street, intending to turn thence into Piccadilly. As I passed

the Minerva Club the door swung open, and to my astonishment my

eldest brother, who had succeeded to the baronetcy and estates on my

father’s death, came down the steps. That he recognised me there

could be no doubt. He could not have helped seeing me even if he had

wished to do so, and for a moment, I felt certain, he did not know

what to do. He and I had never been on good terms, and when I

realised that, in spite of my many years’ absence from home, he was

not inclined to offer me a welcome, I made as if I would pass on. He,

however, hastened after me, and caught me before I could turn the

corner.

 

“Gilbert,” he said, holding out his hand, but speaking without

either emotion or surprise, “this is very unexpected. I had no notion

you were in England. How long is it since you arrived?”

 

“I reached London yesterday,” I answered, with a corresponding

coolness, as I took his hand. For, as I have said, there was that in

his face which betrayed no pleasure at seeing me.

 

He was silent for half a minute or so, and I could see that he was

wondering how he could best get rid of me.

 

“You have heard of our father’s death, I suppose?” he said at

last.

 

“I learnt the news in Sydney,” I replied. “I have also received

the five thousand pounds he left me.”

 

He made no comment upon the smallness of the amount in proportion

to the large sums received by himself and the rest of the family, nor

did he refer in any other way to our parent’s decease. Any one

watching us might have been excused had they taken us for casual

acquaintances, so cool and distant were we with one another.

Presently I enquired, for politeness sake, after his wife, who was

the daughter of the Marquis of Belgravia, and whom I had, so far,

never seen.

 

“Ethelberta unfortunately is not very well at present,” he

answered. “Sir James Peckleton has ordered her complete rest and

quiet, and I regret, for that reason, I shall not be able to see as

much of you as I otherwise should have hoped to do. Is it your

intention to remain very long in England?”

 

“I have no notion,” I replied, truthfully. “I maybe here a week—a

year—or for the rest of my life. But you need not be afraid, I shall

not force my society upon you. From your cordial welcome home, I

gather that the less you see of me the more you will appreciate the

relationship we bear to one another. Good morning.”

 

Without more words I turned upon my heel and strolled on down the

street, leaving him looking very uncomfortable upon the pavement.

There and then I registered a vow that, come what might, I would have

no more to do with my own family.

 

Leaving Pall Mall behind me, I turned up St. James’s Street and

made my way into Piccadilly. In spite of the slippery roads, the

streets were well filled with carriages, and almost opposite

Burlington House I noticed a stylish brougham drawn up beside the

footpath. Just as I reached it the owner left the shop before which

it was standing, and crossed the pavement towards it. Notwithstanding

the expensive fur coat he wore, the highly polished top hat, and his

stylish appearance generally, I knew him at once for Bartrand, my

greatest enemy on earth. He did not see me, for which I could not

help feeling thankful; but I had seen him, and the remembrance of his

face haunted me for the rest of my walk. The brougham, the horses,

even the obsequious servants, should have been mine. I was the just,

lawful owner of them all.

 

After dinner that evening I was sitting in the smoking room

looking into the fire and, as usual, brooding over my unfortunate

career, when an elderly gentleman, seated in an armchair opposite me,

laid his paper on his knee and addressed me.

 

“It’s a very strange thing about these murders,” he said, shaking

his head. “I don’t understand it at all. Major-General Brackington

last night, and now Lord Beryworth this morning.”

 

“Do you mean to say there has been another murder of the same kind

to-day?” I enquired, with a