The Man Who Rose Again Part 39

The following day the old woman who swept his room and did odd jobs for him came in the ordinary way. She had not the slightest idea who he was.

If some one told her that he was Radford Leicester, it would have meant nothing to her. She knew nothing, and cared just as little about the doings of the world. If she met him in the street she would not have recognised him; she was too blind.

"Want me any more to-day?" she asked as she was leaving.

"No--yes," said Leicester; "you might come about half-past six to-night.

I may want you, and will you bring me an evening newspaper?"

"All right. Which? there's so many on 'em."

"Oh, it does not matter. Bring half a dozen. You can get them off the man who stands at the corner of the top of Chancery Lane."

"'L right," she said, taking the sixpence he gave her.

Throughout the rest of the day he sat alone, still thinking and brooding. When evening came he looked impatiently at his watch. He was anxious to see the evening newspapers.

The old woman did not come till seven o'clock.

"Here are the papers," she said; "anything you want me to do?"

"Yes, go out and buy a chop, and then bring it back and grill it."

The woman took the money for the chop, nodded, and went away without a word. Leicester opened one of the newspapers eagerly.

He had no need to search long for what he wanted to find. Almost the first paragraph which caught his eye was about himself. He laughed aloud as he read it. Truly, it was a grim joke.

"This morning, at early dawn, as a police constable was pa.s.sing over Blackfriars Bridge, he looked over the parapet and saw something which appeared to him as a strange-looking object lying on one of the steps which lead down to the river. On going nearer, he found it was the body of a dead man, which to all appearance had been in the river some time, and had been carried to the steps by the outgoing tide, and left stranded there. The constable whistled, and was immediately joined by two others. The body was taken to the ---- mortuary. On examination, two proofs of the man's ident.i.ty were found. The first was a letter, and the other a handkerchief bearing the deceased's name in the corner. But for these two things it would have been impossible to identify him, as the face is distorted and swollen beyond all recognition. It is with great regret that we have to state that both the letter and the handkerchief bore the name of Radford Leicester. Many of our readers will have known Mr. Radford Leicester by repute. After a brilliant career at Oxford, he eventually became Parliamentary candidate for Taviton, and many prophesied that his splendid abilities would take him high in the councils of the nation. He became engaged to a charming young lady of wealth and position, but although the wedding-day was fixed, the marriage never took place. Whatever the reason for this, it is believed that it unhinged the late gentleman's mind. Since the sad circ.u.mstances which took place in Taviton, and which were recorded in the daily press some time ago, Mr. Leicester has not been seen, and until the sad discovery of this morning, no one had any idea of his whereabouts. The deceased gentleman was a man of few friends, and until his engagement lived very much the life of a recluse. It is with great sorrow that we record the above, as it was fully hoped and believed that he would not only have a very distinguished future, but that he would have been of great value to his country."

Leicester threw down the paper.

"Good," he said; "everything is turning out exactly as I thought."

He read the other papers, and found that each gave very nearly the same version. One moralised at some length on the sad end of the deceased, and enlarged on the evils of drinking.

It was a strange experience, this reading of his own obituary notices, but it agreed with his mood. He had not enjoyed himself so much for a long time.

He did not leave the house. He determined to do nothing which might shake any one's belief in the farce that was being played. He would see the mockery out to the bitter end. This was not long in coming. The inquest was held without delay, and the early impressions were confirmed. It was a case of circ.u.mstantial evidence. Radford Leicester had hinted at suicide to the proprietor of the Red Lion Hotel, Taviton.

Since that time he had not been seen alive by any who had previously known him. He had also left Taviton in disgrace, his political career being blighted, while it was commonly believed that Miss Castlemaine had refused to marry him because she had discovered something disgraceful in his life. His drinking habits were known to many. Therefore, when a body was discovered, and on it two proofs of its ident.i.ty, the jury could come to no other conclusion than they did.

Moreover, a strange coincidence took place at the inquest. The solicitor of Radford Leicester appeared, bearing a doc.u.ment signed by the said Radford Leicester, stating his desire that, in the event of his death, his property should be allowed to acc.u.mulate for ten years from the date of his decease, and should then be given to Guy's Hospital. This solicitor was an old man of the name of Mr. Flipp, an exceedingly eccentric but a much respected member of the profession nevertheless.

Accordingly a verdict of suicide while in an unsound condition of mind was brought in; and orders were given that the body should be buried, the expenses to be paid out of the deceased gentleman's estate.

Leicester went to the funeral. Mr. Flipp was there, together with Winfield and two or three others with whom he had been on terms of intimacy. He had so disguised himself that no suspicion was aroused, and he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.

He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx.

Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little heed.

"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.

"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.

The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.

"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in this fas.h.i.+on."

When he got outside the cemetery he pa.s.sed by a newsagent's shop, and noticed the placards on the board outside:

"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"

He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the article, which had used him for its text.

"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."

"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried.

After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public.

Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place.

Now I must carry my plans into effect."

CHAPTER XVII

HOW OLIVE RECEIVED THE NEWS

Olive Castlemaine sat beneath a mimosa-tree in the garden of an hotel in Gra.s.se in the south of France. Near her sat her father, who was diligently reading a French newspaper. They had been sitting thus for some time, neither speaking to the other. In spite of the suns.h.i.+ne, and the fresh winds which blew across the hills on which this French village was built, Olive looked pale and tired. Much of her old vivacity was gone. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes; her abundant life had departed. She looked wistfully away towards Cannes, the fas.h.i.+onable town which lay several hundreds of feet lower, away by the sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean; then she glanced around the garden, and noted the almost tropical plants which grew in such abundance.

"Father, I want to get home," she said.

"You will have great difficulty in finding a more beautiful spot than this," said John Castlemaine.

"Yes, I know, but I cannot bear it any longer. I want to get back to work."

"You'll find it very hard to go back to the old scenes again; besides, you know what gossips our neighbours are."

"I do not see that that matters. I did a very cowardly thing in coming away."

"You did what I insisted on," replied her father.

"Yes, I know; but I ought to have insisted also."

"Yes, and--well, it has been bad enough here where we are unknown, but home at The Beeches--why, those newspaper reports would have driven us mad."

"They would have done nothing of the sort. If they had--well, it would not have mattered."

"You have not driven the fellow out of your mind yet."

"No," replied Olive.