1901 was both the nadir and acme of popular literature, in the Post Editor's opinion. At no other period could writing be so bad and so good at the same time. I've discovered a new favourite love-to-hate writer. It's all Paigetheoracle's fault. He told me to read Robert Aickman, but of course I had to look him up first. I haven't got to Aickman yet, because I ran across his grandfather: Richard Marsh. Marsh's real name was Richard Bernard Heldmann. He used to write uplifting boys' fiction, until he got in trouble for check-kiting and changed genres and names. After that, his work tended to the supernatural and outré.

Marsh's most famous work was The Beetle, a gender-bending novel about an evil shape-shifting Egyptian that also features a Bertie Wooster-style nitwit whose hobby is inventing WMDs. Believe it or not, The Beetle came out the same year as Dracula, and was more popular.

The following mess is so delightful that I'm going to run it for you in its entirety, but since it's in three chapters and is too long for the internet, I'm going to spread it out over three weeks. This will give you time to try and solve the mystery. That should add to the 'fun'.

Here, then, is some snobbery with violence. You're sure to recognise the style, which is sort of snarky Charlotte M Yonge. This short story is taken from the anthology Amusement Only, and reproduced courtesy of Project Gutenberg.

Sought

The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a moment on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag, which seemed well weighted. On his countenance there was an expression which to a casual observer might have suggested that his Grace was not completely at his ease. That casual observer happened to come strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Dacre.

Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that languid way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked, possibly intending to be facetious:

'Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?'

Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the Duke's own cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the Duke smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion.

Mr. Dacre noticed that the Duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense of humour another airing:

'Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the Duchess just now I wondered if it had.'

His Grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag.

'You saw the Duchess just now, Ivor! When?'

The Duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to languid curiosity.

'I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour ago; perhaps a little more.'

'Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?'

Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely have been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet been married a year. Every one knew that she and the Duke were still as fond of each other as if they were not man and wife. So, although the Duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a clean breast of all he knew.

'She was going like blazes in a hansom cab.'

'In a hansom cab? Where?'

'Down Waterloo Place.'

'Was she alone?'

Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the Duke out of the corners of his eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl:

'I rather fancy she wasn't.'

'Who was with her?'

'My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank I couldn't tell you.'

'Was it a man?'

Mr. Dacre's drawl became still more pronounced:

'I rather fancy that it was.'

Mr. Dacre expected something. The Duke was so excited. But he by no means expected what actually came:

'Ivor, she's been kidnapped!'

Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within the memory of man – he dropped his eye-glass.

'Datchet!'

'She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped her. He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if I don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five he'll let me have her little finger.'

Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his Grace at all. He was a sober man – it couldn't be that! Mr. Dacre felt really concerned.

'I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home.'

Mr. Dacre half raised his stick to hail a passing hansom. The Duke caught him by the arm.

'You ass! What do you mean? I am telling you the simple truth. My wife's been kidnapped.'

Mr. Dacre's countenance was a thing to be seen – and remembered.

'Oh! I hadn't heard that there was much of that sort of thing about just now. They talk of poodles being kidnapped, but as for duchesses – – You'd really better let me call that cab.'

'Ivor, do you want me to kick you? Don't you see that to me it's a question of life and death? I've been in there to get the money.' His Grace motioned towards the bank. 'I'm going to take it to the scoundrel who has my darling at his mercy. Let me but have her hand in mine again, and he shall continue to pay for every sovereign with tears of blood until he dies.'

'Look here, Datchet, I don't know if you're having a joke with me, or if you're not well – – '

The Duke stepped impatiently into the roadway.

'Ivor, you're a fool! Can't you tell jest from earnest, health from disease? I'm off! Are you coming with me? It would be as well that I should have a witness.'

'Where are you off to?'

'To the other end of the Arcade.'

'Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure of meeting there?'

'How should I know?' The Duke took a letter from his pocket – it was the letter which had just arrived. 'The fellow is to wear a white top-hat, and a gardenia in his button hole.'

'What is it you have there?'

'It's the letter which brought the news – look for yourself and see; but, for God's sake make haste!' His Grace glanced at his watch. 'It's already twenty after five.'

'And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter such as this you are going to hand over five hundred pounds to – – '

The Duke cut Mr. Dacre short:

'What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you don't know all. There is another letter. And I have heard from Mabel. But I will tell you all about it later. If you are coming, come!'

Folding up the letter, Mr. Dacre returned it to the Duke.

'As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It's as well they are not as much to you as they are to me, or I'm afraid – – '

'Hang it, Ivor, do prose afterwards!'

The Duke hurried across the road. Mr. Dacre hastened after him. As they entered the Arcade they passed a constable. Mr. Dacre touched his companion's arm.

'Don't you think we'd better ask our friend in blue to walk behind us? His neighbourhood might be handy.'

'Nonsense!' The Duke stopped short. 'Ivor, this is my affair, not yours. If you are not content to play the part of silent witness, be so good as to leave me.'

'My dear Datchet, I'm entirely at your service. I can be every whit as insane as you, I do assure you.'

Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington Arcade. The Duke was obviously in a state of the extremest nervous tension. Mr. Dacre was equally obviously in a state of the most supreme enjoyment. People stared as they rushed past. The Duke saw nothing. Mr. Dacre saw everything, and smiled.

When they reached the Piccadilly end of the Arcade the Duke pulled up. He looked about him. Mr. Dacre also looked about him.

'I see nothing of your white-hatted and gardenia-button-holed friend,' said Ivor.

The Duke referred to his watch:

'It's not yet half-past five. I'm up to time.'

Mr. Dacre held his stick in front of him and leaned on it. He indulged himself with a beatific smile:

'It strikes me, my dear Datchet, that you've been the victim of one of the finest things in hoaxes – – '

'I hope I haven't kept you waiting.'

The voice which interrupted Mr. Dacre came from the rear. While they were looking in front of them some one approached from behind, apparently coming out of the shop which was at their backs.

The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, too. Costume, appearance, manner were beyond reproach – even beyond the criticism of two such keen critics as were these. The glorious attire of a London dandy was surmounted with a beautiful white top-hat. In his button-hole was a magnificent gardenia.

In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a sunny-faced, handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hairless, his eyes were blue. His smile was not only innocent, it was bland. Never was there a more conspicuous illustration of that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

The Duke looked at him, and glowered. Mr. Dacre looked at him, and smiled.

'Who are you?' asked the Duke.

'Ah – that is the question!' The newcomer's refined and musical voice breathed the very soul of affability. 'I am an individual who is so unfortunate as to be in want of five hundred pounds.'

'Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous letter?'

That charming stranger never turned a hair!

'I am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter who wants to accost you at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade before half-past five – as witness my white hat and my gardenia.'

'Where's my wife?'

The stranger gently swung his stick in front of him with his two hands. He regarded the Duke as a merry-hearted son might regard his father. The thing was beautiful!

'Her Grace will be home almost as soon as you are – when you have given me the money which I perceive you have all ready for me in that scarcely elegant-looking canvas bag.' He shrugged his shoulders quite gracefully. 'Unfortunately, in these matters one has no choice – one is forced to ask for gold.'

'And suppose, instead of giving you what is in this canvas bag, I take you by the throat and choke the life right out of you?'

'Or suppose,' amended Mr. Dacre, 'that you do better, and commend this gentleman to the tender mercies of the first policeman we encounter.'

The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He condescended to become conscious of his presence.

'Is this gentleman your Grace's friend? Ah – Mr. Dacre, I perceive! I have the honour of knowing Mr. Dacre, although, possibly, I am unknown to him.'

'You were – until this moment.'

With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the Duke. He brushed an invisible speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat.

'As has been intimated in that infamous letter, his Grace is at perfect liberty to give me into custody – why not? Only' – he said it with his boyish smile – 'if a particular communication is not received from me in certain quarters within a certain time, the Duchess of Datchet's beautiful white arm will be hacked off at the shoulder.'

'You hound!'

The Duke would have taken the stranger by the throat, and have done his best to choke the life right out of him then and there, if Mr. Dacre had not intervened.

'Steady, old man!' Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger: 'You appear to be a pretty sort of a scoundrel.'

The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible shrug:

'Oh, my dear Dacre, I am in want of money! I believe that you sometimes are in want of money, too.'

Everybody knows that nobody knows where Ivor Dacre gets his money from, so the illusion must have tickled him immensely.

'You're a cool hand,' he said.

'Some men are born that way.'

'So I should imagine. Men like you must be born, not made.'

'Precisely – as you say!' The stranger turned, with his graceful smile, to the Duke: 'But are we not wasting precious time? I can assure your Grace that, in this particular matter, moments are of value.'

Mr. Dacre interposed before the Duke could answer:

'If you take my strongly urged advice, Datchet, you will summon this constable who is now coming down the Arcade, and hand over this gentleman to his keeping. I do not think that you need fear that the Duchess will lose her arm, or even her little finger. Scoundrels of this one's kidney are most amenable to reason when they have handcuffs on their wrists.'

The Duke plainly hesitated. He would – and he would not. The stranger, as he eyed him, seemed much amused.

'My dear Duke, by all means act on Mr. Dacre's valuable suggestion. As I said before, why not? It would at least be interesting to see if the Duchess does or does not lose her arm – almost as interesting to you as to Mr. Dacre. Those blackmailing, kidnapping scoundrels do use such empty menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure of seeing me locked up. My imprisonment for life would recompense you even for the loss of her Grace's arm. And five hundred pounds is such a sum to have to pay – merely for a wife! Why not, therefore, act on Mr. Dacre's suggestion? Here comes the constable.' The constable referred to was advancing towards them – he was not a dozen yards away. 'Let me beckon to him – I will with pleasure.' He took out his watch – a gold chronograph repeater. 'There are scarcely ten minutes left during which it will be possible for me to send the communication which I spoke of, so that it may arrive in time. As it will then be too late, and the instruments are already prepared for the little operation which her Grace is eagerly anticipating, it would, perhaps, be as well, after all, that you should give me into charge. You would have saved your five hundred pounds, and you would, at any rate, have something in exchange for her Grace's mutilated limb. Ah, here is the constable! Officer!'

The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy geniality that it was impossible to tell if he were in jest or earnest. This fact impressed the Duke much more than if he had gone in for a liberal indulgence of the – under the circumstances – orthodox melodramatic scowling. And, indeed, in the face of his own common sense, it impressed Mr. Ivor Dacre too.

This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being to realise – aux bouts des ongles – a modern type of the devil, the type which depicts him as a perfect gentleman, who keeps smiling all the time.

The constable whom this audacious rogue had signalled approached the little group. He addressed the stranger:

'Do you want me, sir?'

'No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of Datchet.'

The constable, who knew the Duke very well by sight, saluted him as he turned to receive instructions.

The Duke looked white, even savage. There was not a pleasant look in his eyes and about his lips. He appeared to be endeavouring to put a great restraint upon himself. There was a momentary silence. Mr. Dacre made a movement as if to interpose. The Duke caught him by the arm.

He spoke: 'No, constable, I do not want you. This person is mistaken.'

The constable looked as if he could not quite make out how such a mistake could have arisen, hesitated, then, with another salute, he moved away.

The stranger was still holding his watch in his hand.

'Only eight minutes,' he said.

The Duke seemed to experience some difficulty in giving utterance to what he had to say.

'If I give you this five hundred pounds, you – you – – '

As the Duke paused, as if at a loss for language which was strong enough to convey his meaning, the stranger laughed.

'Let us take the adjectives for granted. Besides, it is only boys who call each other names – men do things. If you give me the five hundred sovereigns, which you have in that bag, at once – in five minutes it will be too late – I will promise – I will not swear; if you do not credit my simple promise, you will not believe my solemn affirmation – I will promise that, possibly within an hour, certainly within an hour and a half, the Duchess of Datchet shall return to you absolutely uninjured – except, of course, as you are already aware, with regard to a few of the hairs of her head. I will promise this on the understanding that you do not yourself attempt to see where I go, and that you will allow no one else to do so.' This with a glance at Ivor Dacre. 'I shall know at once if I am followed. If you entertain any such intentions, you had better, on all accounts, remain in possession of your five hundred pounds.'

The Duke eyed him very grimly:

'I entertain no such intentions – until the Duchess returns.'

Again the stranger indulged in that musical little laugh of his:

'Ah, until the Duchess returns! Of course, then the bargain's at an end. When you are once more in the enjoyment of her Grace's society, you will be at liberty to set all the dogs in Europe at my heels. I assure you I fully expect that you will do so – why not?' The Duke raised the canvas bag. 'My dear Duke, ten thousand thanks! You shall see her Grace at Datchet House, 'pon my honour. Probably within the hour.'

'Well,' commented Ivor Dacre, when the stranger had vanished, with the bag, into Piccadilly, and as the Duke and himself moved towards Burlington Gardens, 'if a gentleman is to be robbed, it is as well that he should have another gentleman to rob him.'

The torture isn't over yet. Part III to come!

Dmitri Gheorgheni

30.07.18 Front Page

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