The Piccadilly Puzzle: A Mysterious Story

At two o'clock in the morning during the month of August sounds of music could be heard proceeding from a brilliantly lighted house in Park Lane, where a ball was being given by the Countess of Kerstoke. True, the season was long since over, and though the greater part of London Society had migrated swallow-like to the South of Europe in search of warm weather, still there were enough people in town to justify the ball being given, and a number of celebrities were present.

Outside it was dull and chill with a thick yellow fog pervading the atmosphere, but within the great ball-room it was like fairy-land with the brilliant light of the lamps, the profusion of bright flowers, and the gay dresses worn by the ladies. The orchestra hidden behind a gorgeous screen of tropical plants was playing the latest waltz, "A Friend of Mine," and the sigh and sob of the melody as it stole softly through the room seemed to inspire the dancers with a voluptuous languor as they glided over the polished floor. The soft frou-frou of women's dresses mingled with the light laughter of young girls and the whispered confidences of their partners, while over all dominated the haunting melody with its weird modulations and suggestions of sensuous passion.

Near the door of the ball-room a young man of about thirty years of age was leaning against the wall in a lazy attitude, idly watching the dancers swinging past him; but judging from the preoccupied expression of his face his thoughts were evidently far away. He was tall, dark-haired, with a short cut well-trimmed beard, piercing dark eyes, a firmly compressed mouth, and judging from his swarthy complexion together with a certain crisp curl in his hair he evidently had some negro blood in his veins. Suddenly he was roused from his meditations by a touch on his shoulder, and on glancing up saw before him a stout elderly gentleman with white hair, a ruddy face, and rather a Silenus cast of countenance.

The one was Spenser Ellersby, only son of a wealthy West Indian planter, and the other Horace Marton a well-known society man generally called The Town-crier, from the fact that he knew all the current scandals and retailed them with elaborate embellishments to his numerous circle of friends.

"Hey! Ellersby, my boy," said The Town-crier, on the alert to acquire fresh information "have you come back once more to England, home and beauty--hey? been all over the world I suppose, hey?--going to publish a book of travels--hey?"

"Not me," replied Ellersby in the slow, languid manner habitual to him, "everyone who goes half-a-dozen miles now-a-days publishes a book of travels under some fantastic title. I prefer to be renowned for not having done so."

"Broke no new ground--hey?"

"No," indifferently. "I haven't the instincts of Columbus so the old ground was good enough for me. I've done Africa in a superficial manner, called on our American cousins, passed the same compliment to our Australian ditto, in fact done the usual thing with the usual result."

"Hey! what's that?"

"A sense of being bored--I agree with Voltaire to a certain extent, 'this is the best of all possible worlds,' but one does get and little tired of it--however I have satisfied your curiosity, now return the compliment. I've been away from England for two years so know nothing of life in town--come unfold--tell me all--scandals, deaths, marriages, divorces, in fact all the gossip of the hour."

This was an occupation after The Town-crier's own heart, so he launched out into a long description of folly and fashion varied by sermons and scandal, which being spiced with a little maliciousness proved quite an amusing discourse. Ellersby listened in silence with a quiet smile on his lips, every now and then giving vent to an ejaculation as he heard some special morsel of news.

"You ought to write your memoirs, Marton," he said drily, "they would be as gossiping as Pepys, as scandalous De Grammont, and as amusing as either, but go on--anything more? Who are the new beauties?"

"Hey! oh! one was here to-night, Lady Balscombe."

"What! old Balscombe married," said Ellersby in a surprised tone. "I thought he loved no one but himself--so!--and who is my lady?"

"That's what everyone wants to know," replied Marton eagerly, "he picked her up down in the country somewhere, but she's got no pedigree--no money, no talents--nothing but personal beauty."

"Which is worth all the rest put together, to a woman," interrupted Ellersby cynically. "What is she like?"

The Town-crier reeled off an auctioneer-like description at once.

"Tall, fair, blue eyes, beautiful complexion, magnificent figure, and the devil's own temper."

"Nice set of qualifications, especially the latter," murmured Ellersby. "Balscombe fond of her?"

"Hey! oh yes--madly! won't let her out of his sight, but he had to to-night as he's off down to his place in Berkshire on business, tried to make her ladyship come to but she wouldn't because of this dance--good Lord--fancy a dance at this time of the year!--but Kerstoke's wife was always slightly cracked!"

"Does Lady Balscombe reciprocate her husband's adoration?"

Marton raised his eyebrows, rubbed his hands and leered significantly.

"Not exactly! hey!" he replied chuckling. "Calliston is first favourite there."

"Eh!--the deuce--I thought he was in love with old Balscombe's ward, Miss Penfold."

"So he is--but he makes love to the wife just to keep his hand in--I wouldn't be surprised if it ended in the Divorce Court."

"Well you are generally right in your surmises," retorted Ellersby, "but what would Miss Penfold say to that?"

"Hey! oh, she'd be glad," replied Marton, "bless you she cares more for Myles Desmond's little finger than she does for the whole body of Calliston."

"Oh I know Myles," said Ellersby promptly, "a rattling good fellow, was with him at Cambridge but we somehow never hit it off--trying to make a fortune by his pen I hear."

"Yes! and hasn't made a penny yet, so he acts as secretary to his cousin Lord Calliston--he's next heir to the title you know, hey!"

"Much chance he'll have of it," replied Ellersby, contemptuously. "Calliston's sure to marry and have heirs, unless he kills himself in the meantime with drink--but, to revert to our former conversation--the Balscombe ménage seems slightly mixed."

"Hey! rather--it stands this way," explained Marton, eagerly; "Balscombe's jealous of his wife on account of Calliston--Lady B. is jealous of Calliston on account of Miss Penfold, and that young lady does not care two straws for the whole lot of them in comparison to Myles Desmond."

"Sounds like the second act of a French play," murmured Ellersby, yawning. "Well, when I see Lady Balscombe, I'll give you my opinion of her looks; meantime, you must be dry after all that talking, so come and have a drink."

"Where are you stopping?" asked Marton, as they went to the supper-room.

"Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street," said Ellersby, "only for a few days till I get my rooms fixed up; I've brought such a lot of things home that my chambers look like an old curiosity shop. What are you having?"

"Champagne," replied Marton. "Oh, I say, dear boy," seeing his companion with a small glass full of brandy, "that looks bad at this hour! Hey--you haven't----

"No, I haven't," interrupted Ellersby impatiently, "I'm only taking this to-night because I don't feel up to the mark."

Marton said no more, but after parting with his companion went back to the ball-room, and meeting a friend, confided to him that poor Ellersby was going to the dogs through drink.

"Brandy neat, dear boy, hey!" said the old reprobate. "Bad habits these young fellows pick up abroad, hey! look used up, by Jove! Gal in it, dear boy, hey!--oh, shocking!"

So The Town-crier evidently did not intend to give the returned wanderer a good character.

Ellersby was now tired of the ball, so bade good-night to his hostess, who was a queer, thin little woman, wearing a wig, a low-cut dress, and many jewels, giving one the general impression that she was mostly bones and diamonds.