The Mystery of an Artist’s Model E-Book

Fenton Ash

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Written as Frank Aubrey, „The Mystery of an Artist’s Model” is a weird mystery with rationalized supernaturalism. Little is known about Aubrey/Atkins. He was involved in a scandal at the turn of the century and sentenced to nine months imprisonment for obtaining money by deception. After leaving prison he dropped the name Frank Aubrey and – in his early 60s, following a three-year hiatus – began writing as Fenton Ash.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE

CHAPTER II. THE MURDER IN THE STUDIO

CHAPTER III. ANDREW HUNTLY, DETECTIVE

CHAPTER IV. TAKING UP THE SCENT

CHAPTER V. A STRANGE TALE

CHAPTER VI. GATHERING CLUES

CHAPTER VII. AT THE INQUEST

CHAPTER VIII. A FRESH TRAIL

CHAPTER IX. EVELYN MAKES A SUGGESTION

CHAPTER X. DENNETT'S STORY

CHAPTER XI. MR. GILHAM

CHAPTER XII. COMPARING NOTES

CHAPTER XIII. MORE MYSTERY

CHAPTER XIV. CONCERNING SYDNEY WILDER

CHAPTER XV. VOICES IN A VAULT

CHAPTER XVI. A MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE

CHAPTER XVII. NEWS FROM DEAL

CHAPTER XVIII. MORE HELP FROM EVELYN

CHAPTER XIX. A FLIRTATION; AND WHAT CAME OF IT

CHAPTER XX. THE RED HAND

CHAPTER XXI. DENNETT TURNS DETECTIVE

CHAPTER XXII. NEW TROUBLES

CHAPTER XXIII. A HOUSE OF SICKNESS

CHAPTER XXIV. ALONE IN THE STUDIO

CHAPTER XXV. THE END

CHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE

“IT is a most horrid, weird, gruesome, uncanny- looking creation. It gives me the creeps. I do not wonder that Harold hates it, and wishes to rid the studio of it!”

“But, my dear Miss Carlton, consider! It is a work of art, and it cost a lot of money, too, I can assure you!”

“Ugh! It is enough to give one the horrors even to look at it, apart from its history. But when, in addition, one thinks of the monster it represents, and that those clothes are the very same garments–blood-stained and hideous–in which the wretch, was executed! Ugh! Mr. Dorman! I wonder how you have endured its presence in your place day after day all this long time!”

Fred Dorman laughed; an easy, good-natured laugh that seemed to tell of a mind free from worry, and a disposition at peace with itself and the world. And these were indeed his most prominent characteristics. Successful as an artist, though still young–he was scarcely more than thirty–full of life and energy, a noted athlete, and a general favorite amongst all who knew him, he had had very little to complain of thus far on his way through life. And today he was in extra good spirits, in that he had just sold–for a goodly sum–the two pictures that stood on the easel–the result of some months of careful work.

Evelyn Carlton, the young lady with whom he was talking, was the charming fiancée of his chum, Harold Gainsford, who shared his studio. She was quite young–barely nineteen–neither tall nor short, but of fair average height, with rich, golden-brown hair, and a face that attracted all who came within its influence by its sweet smile and quiet, child-like beauty. Her eyes were large and lustrous, and had at times a wistful, half-sad expression that was peculiarly touching. They told indeed of a deeply sympathetic nature, and one had only to look at them, and read the message they seemed to convey, to understand why it was that she was so loved, and petted, and admired, not merely by her widowed mother, or her devoted lover, but by everyone who came in contact with her.

Harold Gainsford was in every way a contrast to his friend Dorman. His face was pale and refined, indicating the neurotic, dreamy student, and his figure, thin, and slender in build, was suggestive of either a lack of constitutional vigour or the after-results of a wasting sickness. As a matter of fact both these things were true; he had always been somewhat delicate, and he had but lately passed through a long and dangerous illness which had left him weak and depressed. But though not robust, like his chum, and unable, as he did, to shine in open-air sports and games, he was equally beloved amongst their circle of friends, everyone who became acquainted with him being at once attracted by his open, kindly nature, and the generous warmth of his disposition.

The conversation recorded above had reference to a model, or lay figure, which was placed at one end of the studio upon a platform, raised a foot or so above, the floor, and set out to represent, in realistic fashion, a rocky mountain background. Near the centre of the scene this figure was seen seated upon a slab of rock just outside the entrance to a cave. It represented a Sicilian brigand, and was complete and exactly true in every detail to the original from which it had been taken; and wonderfully life-like it looked. It was the very ideal of a black-browned and scowling, murderous-looking ruffian, with a rifle leaning against the arm, and pistols and dagger stuck around in the belt. The curious point, however–the fact that rendered the creation unusually gruesome–lay in the circumstance that it was a clever reproduction of a blood-thirsty scoundrel who had actually existed, and who had been executed for his crimes. The wax mask which made up the face had been taken from the miscreant himself; and the clothes, the dagger, and the pistols were those he had actually worn and used during his blood-stained career.

Altogether the figure was–as Evelyn Carlton had declared–gruesome and uncanny-looking, and it was not surprising that she should regard it with instinctive dislike. What, however, was considered a little strange was that Harold Gainsford had, ever since it was first set up in the studio, exhibited towards it an aversion so strong as to amount at times (by his own confession) to a sort of superstitious dread or horror. Of this feeling he could give no reasonable explanation, and he himself felt rather ashamed of the weakness–as everyone around him considered it. But, try as he would, he could not shake it off. So far from getting used to the figure, he seemed to experience every day a stronger repugnance to its presence in the studio. And now that his friend had finished his pictures–for which the effigy had served as a model–he was desirous that it should be got rid of. If he had had his way (he had more than once declared) he would have “chopped it up and burnt it–to the last scrap.”

But Dorman had reasons of his own for wishing to keep the figure in his possession. Not only had it cost him, as he had said, a good deal of money, but it was a memento of a thrilling adventure, that had once befallen him, one in which there had been a terrible tragedy. The pictures he had just finished represented two scenes connected with that exciting time in his life, and he had incurred the expense referred to in order that he should have a model to paint from which would render those pictures as realistic as was humanly possible.

Later on–in the evening of that same day–Gainsford gave a further demonstration of his antipathy to the offending model, and as this episode was burnt into his brain by its curious relation to the terrible events which followed, it is of importance to our story that it should be set down here.

It had been early afternoon when Mrs. Carlton and her daughter had called to see the two artists, and, when they left, Gainsford left with them, and accompanied them to their home in Kensington, where he stayed to dine. Dorman, meantime, went off in another direction upon business of his own. Almost immediately after that dinner Gainsford left his friends, and returned to the studio, where he found his chum busily engaged, for it happened that Dorman was starting early the next morning upon a trip to the South of France. He had finished his pictures and sold them, and so considered himself entitled to a holiday, and Harold had good- naturedly cut short his evening at the home of his fiancée in order to assist his chum in his packing and other, arrangements before his departure.

Thus it came about that they had made their preparations, and were seated before the fire–for it was a cold winter’s night, and there was snow outside–smoking their last pipes while it was still comparatively early.

“Well, we’ve settled everything, I think,” said Dorman, “and it’s not yet ten o’clock. That’s well, for I never like to go to bed late if I’ve got to be up early next morning.”

“I know, old chap, and I’m ready as soon as you like,” Harold returned.

“There’s just one thing though that I almost forgot,” Dorman went on. “Old Shylock, as you often call him, paid me for those pictures this afternoon, as he usually does, in cash-notes, and I have them in my pocket. Now I don’t want to take all this with me, so before I leave tomorrow I’m going to hand what I don’t want over to you.”

As he spoke he took out a pocket-book, and, selecting from it a bundle of notes, put some of them into an envelope, and then thrust them all back into his pocket.

“Don’t forget to remind me to give you that envelope before I go in the morning,” he observed.

“What am I to do with it?” Harold asked.

“Anything you like, so long as you don’t lose the notes, or get robbed.”

“Humph! I’d better pay them into your bank, hadn’t I?”

“Just as you like–if you’re sure you won’t want any of ’em yourself before I’m back. If you pay ’em in you can’t get at ’em again, you know. I have put aside all I shall want for my holiday.”

“It’s very good of you, Fred, to say that,” said Harold. “It’s like your good nature of think of it; but I’m not likely to be hard up and to require such a favor while you’re away. But,” he added, with a sudden change of manner, “there’s one favor I would like you to grant me before you leave.”

“What’s that, Harold?”

“To let me smash up that beastly model yonder! There it sits, staring at me with its idiotic eyes and horrible face! Fred! I tell you I can’t stand that thing–I can’t have it here to keep me company, when I am alone in the studio while you’re gone! You must let me smash it up now, and have done with it!”

Dorman, who had become used to these sudden outbreaks, only smiled.

“What? Still so bitter against the poor thing?” he said, lightly. “Pooh! Harold, I am–! Hullo! What the dickens are you going to do?”

Harold had started up and taken down an old broadsword which was hanging against the wall. He brandished this in frantic style, and advanced threateningly towards the object of his dislike. Dorman sprang up, too, and tried to stop him, but he would probably have been too late if Harold had not stopped dead of his own accord. He did more than stop, however, he actually retreated a step.

“I say, Fred!” he gasped.

“Well? What on earth–”

“Fred!” said Harold, turning with an awe-struck face to his chum, “there is something uncanny about that thing! I always felt there was! I–I–saw–it–wince!”

“Wince? Rubbish, man–”

“I tell you I did! I would almost swear to it!”

“You’re excited, Harold! You have worried yourself so long about this figure that you’ve become a bit ‘barmy’ over it.” said Dorman, soothingly, as he took the sword from Harold’s now unresisting hand. At the same time he drew a curtain across, shutting the figure from sight. “How should a lay figure wince? There, there! Let us get to bed! I’m sleepy–and the longer you sit up the more morbid you’ll get!”

Harold, whose excited mood had passed away, offered no objection. His bed was in a small room opening into the passage outside; and with a brief good-night he went off to it.

Dorman’s bed was in one corner of the roomy studio itself, in a curtained recess opposite the fire.

Instead, however, of going to bed immediately, he sat down on the side of it with the curtains undrawn, staring reflectively at the fire. His thoughts were running on the incident that had just occurred, and he shook his head dubiously two or three times. Presently he lay down, all dressed as he was, and, still staring thoughtfully at the fire, fell asleep.

CHAPTER II. THE MURDER IN THE STUDIO

THE studio jointly occupied by Fred Dorman and Harold Gainsford was situated upon the first floor of a large, old-fashioned house standing in a corner of a square just off the Marylebone-road.

The square formed a cul-de-sac, as it were. You could only enter or leave it at one corner–the one opposite to the house referred to. It stood there quite alone, for in both directions there were intervals between it and the other houses of the square–these intervals were filled in by blank walls shutting off two large buildings, public institutions of some kind, that had their chief entrances in other streets.

The old house thus stood, isolated in its corner, with an air of having shut itself off from other habitations in a fit of sulky discontent with its own fallen fortunes. For it was very different in structure and appearance from the more modern residences on the remaining sides of the square. The ground or garden in front was uncared-for and weed-grown. A pathway or carriage drive curved round from gate to gate, one on either side, to the broad flight of steps that led up to the front door. The house itself, too, was gloomy and dilapidated in its general appearance. It impressed you with the conviction that it had “seen better days;” that it had retired to this corner to mediate undisturbed upon its former glories and ancient grandeur; and it seemed to protest, in moody but dignified silence, against the fate that had brought it down from its former high estate.

On the night when this story begins the snow lay thick upon the ground in the square, and the air was keen; but a full moon, riding high in the sky, lighted up the scene with a radiance that made the lights in windows and street lamps appear ruddy by comparison. In the garden in the middle of the square the leafless branches moved slightly to and fro, now and then, when a light, but icy, breeze came sweeping past, their shadows tracing quaint, over-changing, lace-like patterns on the snow beneath them.

The clocks around tolled out midnight, and in the hush, due to the muffling by the snow of the usual sounds of traffic from the neighboring streets, one could hear chimes and bells ringing out the hour in all directions–some close at hand, others far away in the distance. When all had finished, the square could not have seemed more quiet had it formed part of a country village, although it was within a few hundred yards of busy, restless, London thorough-fares.

The silence was soon broken by the sound of voices, intermixed with snatches of comic songs, sung or whistled, and growing louder with the appearance in the square of two men in Inverness capes. They seemed to be in high spirits, and their talk and attempted musical interludes suggested that they had been having a pleasant and merry time of it.

They passed the nearest houses, and were now walking alongside one of the high walls, evidently bound for the large detached house in the corner.

“What a grand dancer that Lanelle is, isn’t she?” said one of the two. “I don’t think I ever saw such a clever dancer! And for grace! She beats Carina all to nothing. That’s my opinion! Don’t you think so, Ted?”

“Well, I don’t know as to that,” returned the other, “but certainly she’s out of the common. She’s, not so good looking, I thing, as Carina; and besides–Hulloa! Who’s this?”

The speaker had turned round at the unexpected presence behind them of someone whose footsteps had been so deadened by the snow that he had come up quite close before they were aware that they had been followed.

“C’est moi, Monsieur Manton,”said the newcomer with a deferential bow. “Permit, sare, that I go to open ze door for you.”

“Ah, Henri,” said the one whom he addressed, “what brings you out so late, eh? Been to post letters or something?”

“No, sare. I have been out all ze evening. Mr. Dorman he give me leave to go out to-night to give my what-you- call–sweetheart–a treat, because it’s her day of birth.”

“Your sweetheart’s birthday, eh? Lucky dog to have a sweetheart, and to be able to take her out. Where have you been? To the theatre, I suppose?”

“To ze Alhambra, sare.”

“Oh, to the Alhambra? Then you saw one we were just talking about–Carina? What do you think of her dancing?”

“C’est superbe, sare. The finest I have ever seen; I knew not before there was one so splendid in London.”

“Ah,” put in he who had been addressed as Ted, “you should have gone to the Empire and seen the one we saw there to- night–Lanelle; she beats Carina all to fits.”

“If that is so, monsieur; I shall go zere ze next time I shall be able. Voila, Monsieur!” and the speaker, throwing open the door, stood respectfully aside to allow the others to enter.

The spacious hall was lighted by a gas lamp; at the end was a broad oak staircase, up which Henri went, after bidding the others good-night; while they entered a door on the right and one turned up the glimmering gas jet that had been left ready-lighted against their return.

The two were Ted Manton and William Ranger, and both were artists. They occupied between them all the ground floor; indeed the whole house was let out in flats, or floors, to artists. The two who had the first floor were Fred Dorman and Harold Gainsford; and Henri, the foreigner who had returned at the same time, as the two first-named, was Dorman’s factotum–a sort of combination of valet, cook, general servant, and, on occasion, model. The ground and first floors ran out some distance to the back, and on each was a suite of rooms or small flat, shut off by one door; but above that the floors were smaller. On the second floor was an artist named Dennett, who had two rooms, the remaining two being let to a tenant who was at this time away. The top floor was empty, with the exception of one room, which Henri used as a bedroom.

When Ranger had stirred up the fire, which responded by sending a cheerful blaze flaring up the wide chimney, he said to his friend while they were taking off their wraps:–

“Funny Henri should be out to-night.”

“Why?” inquired the other. “He’s got a very indulgent master; Dorman often lets him off for the evening.”

“Yes; but Dorman’s going away tomorrow for a month or two. You’d have thought he would have wanted some packing done, or something.”

“I suppose Henri pleaded specially hard on account of its being his sweetheart’s birthday, as he informed us so fully. By the way, what countryman is Henri? Do you know? I suppose he’s French, but I’m sure I don’t know,” returned Ranger indifferently, “and I’m equally certain the matter doesn’t trouble me. Only if I were Dorman–Good heavens! What’s that?”

They both rushed out into the hall just in time to meet Henri tearing–almost tumbling–down the stairs, calling out and shouting while he ran.

“Messieurs, Messieurs! Ah, nom de Dieu!”

Following him up the stairs, and along a passage, they entered the large studio occupied by Dorman and Gainsford. There a terrible sight met their eyes.

Upon a small bedstead that stood in one corner lay extended, upon its back, the form of Fred Dorman, with the front of his clothing covered with blood, which also had run down on to the bed, and the floor. Over him stood Harold Gainsford, muttering incoherently, and seemingly scarcely in his right senses. He, too, was blood-stained, both as to his hands and his clothes; his hair was disordered, and he was but half dressed, and had on neither boots nor slippers.

Manton went up to Dorman’s side and took hold of his hand. He found that it was already stiff and almost cold.

“Good God, Gainsford!” he exclaimed, “what terrible thing is this? What do you know about it? Speak, man, for God’s, sake? What?–Ranger, send Henri off for a doctor at once. Yet I fear ’tis too late. He’s dead–been dead some time; but–still–send Henri at once!”

Henri darted off, leaving the two horrified men alone with Gainsford, from whom came, only the words. “He did it. That thing there. I saw it–saw him strike, but was not in time! He did it! He did it! I always said it would be so; and I saw him do it!”

The two listeners stared incredulously at Gainsford, who pointed to the lay figure at the other end of the studio. Across the front of the platform ran a rod with a curtain upon it, and this had been pulled quite back to the wall on one side. Suddenly Gainsford sprang to the side of the studio near the fireplace, and, taking down an old broad-sword hanging against the wall, made a rush at the lay figure, and, in a seeming access of frenzied rage, cut and hacked at it with terrible fury. The figure fell over on to the ground, the mask came off and rolled one way, and the wooden head another; but he continued to hack at the rest, and had broken it almost to pieces before the two witnesses of his extraordinary acts could interfere and get the sword away from him.

By the time this had been done, Henri returned, accompanied by a doctor and a policeman, the latter being followed, shortly after, by another and a sergeant.

But neither doctor nor policeman could do aught for poor Fred Dorman. He was dead–killed by a deep stab in the breast; and all that was left to be done was to discover the murderer and bring him to punishment.

It seemed an easy enough thing to do this; so at least thought the police, for Gainsford had been taken almost–indeed, only too literally–red-handed, and the sole doubt appeared to be whether he had done it in his sober senses, or, as looked more probable, in a fit of homicidal mania.

At any rate an hour later, Gainsford was charged at the Marylebone police station with the murder of his friend and chum, Fred Dorman.

CHAPTER III. ANDREW HUNTLY, DETECTIVE

ANDREW HUNTLY sat in his sanctum on the day following the tragic death of Fred Dorman, apparently, deeply, engaged in some papers spread out before him; but, in reality, staring blankly at them and seeing nothing. His thoughts were far away, and words and half-sentences that escaped him now and then indicated that he was pondering upon the strange circumstances surrounding the murder.

Huntly was one of the class known as private detectives–and a celebrated one. To his offices in a side street leading out of the Strand came many from far and near, to seek his aid in all kinds of difficulties and troubles. He had had a long and extensive experience, was known to be honest and faithful to those employing his services; but he had been so successful that he had for some time contemplated retiring, and only a sort of inborn love of puzzling out difficult problems had kept him from carrying out his half-formed intention. As it was, he now accepted only such cases as happened to interest him, declining many that were pressed upon him, no matter how liberal might be the remuneration offered. Therefore he was not easy of approach in such matters, and the comparatively few who succeeded in inducing him to lend them his assistance deemed themselves fortunate.

In appearance there was nothing at first sight very remarkable about him. About middle height, neither stout nor thin, yet of muscular build, he showed no sign of age, save, perhaps, the iron-grey color of his closely-cut hair. Nor was there much in the clean-shaven face to serve as an index to the casual observer, unless it were, to be paradoxical, a curious impassiveness when the features were in repose. But, if one looked a little deeper–especially if one watched him when talking upon any subject that interested him–there was a keenness in the steady glance of the grey eyes, and a firmness about the mouth and chin, that were irresistibly suggestive of latent power and repressed energy.

In the midst of his meditations there came a knock at the door, and in response to his sharp, “Come in!” a clerk entered, bearing a note which he handed without remark to his principal.

Huntly took it, opened it, and read it; then sat for a minute drumming with his fingers upon the table. “Who is it that has brought this, Sankey?” he presently asked. “Two ladies, sir!” laconically answered the clerk. “Look like mother and daughter.”

“Mother and daughter, eh? H’m, well–show them in.”

“Yes, sir!” and Sankey went out, but returned almost immediately, ushering in an elderly lady in widow’s weeds, and a very charming but very pale and sorrowful-looking young girl, dressed in a sort of half-mourning; from their appearance they were ladies of good position.

After requesting them to be seated, Huntly glanced again at the letter he still held in his hand, and looking at the elder of the two, said inquiringly:–

“Mrs. Carlton?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the one addressed, “and my daughter,” indicating her companion.

Huntly gave a short, sharp look at the young girl, bowed slightly, and then said to the mother–

“I see this letter is from Dr. Mellor. What is it you wish to see me about?”

Mrs. Carlton essayed to speak, checked herself, and then said, with an evident effort–

“It’s about that dreadful affair of Mr. Dorman. He was a friend of ours–and so is Mr. Gainsford.”

“I see,” replied Huntly. “But what is it you require?”

“We have heard, sir,” answered. Mrs. Carlton, “of your skill in investigating matters of this kind. Also the difficulty there is now in prevailing upon you to take up a new case.”

She paused, evidently looking anxiously for some sign of encouragement; but, receiving none, she continued, still more hesitatingly–

“Dr. Mellor, who is also a friend of ours, said that, perhaps at his suggestion and recommendation, you might make an exception in our case–and we know of what value that might be to us–and we thought that, perhaps, when you had heard–that is–when you know how we are connected with this dreadful business, you might–that is Dr. Mellor said he hoped you would–take it up for us. Money is not an object, compared–”

Here her daughter sprang up impulsively, and extending her clasped hands towards the impassive Huntly, evidently fearing his refusal, exclaimed, with tears running from her eyes and her voice choking with sobs–

“Oh! do not refuse, sir! Do not say no! Wait–wait before you answer! You do not know–you cannot tell–what this may mean to us, and to–to another–it, may be life or death. Oh, sir, say–say you will help us in this awful trouble.”

The mother got up and put her arm tenderly round the girl, who was trembling so that she could scarcely stand.

“Evelyn, my child,” she said soothingly, “sit down. You are over-excited. You must not upset yourself. Sit down and be quiet a moment, while I explain to this gentleman. He cannot possibly say either yes or no until he knows what it is we want;” and she tried to lead her back to her seat.

But the girl pushed her gently from her, and fixed her eyes on Huntly, waiting in a strained agony of hope and fear for his answer.

From his face her glance wandered around the room, then back to meet his, reminding Huntly, who was narrowly observing her, of the pathetic look of a hunted hare.

“Come, come, Miss Carlton,” he said kindly, “do as your mother asks you. I see you are both in great distress, and, if I see my way to help you, I may be willing to do so. But we shall never get on if you do not allow your mother to explain matters, you know.”

Somewhat re-assured by his tone, she went back to her seat; and Mrs. Carlton recommenced, this time more firmly.