Roy Glashan's Library
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ANONYMOUS

LADY MARCHMONT'S SECRET

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Ex Libris

As published in
The Weekly News, Wales, 27 February 1909
This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2024
Version Date: 2024-10-26

Produced by Paul Moulder and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.



IT happened one dreary, wet morning towards the end of May. I was sitting idly in my study dreaming of the patients that never came, and of the cures I might effect were I only given the opportunity, and in the end came to the conclusion that medicine was a very suitable profession for those who wished to starve. From this pessimistic reverie I was suddenly aroused by the prolonged clanging of the front-door bell, and as I listened I heard my solitary domestic shuffling along the corridor to answer the appeal.

A moment later she returned, bearing a piece of paste-board on a tray. I took it and read: "Lady Marchmont, Marchmont Hall."

"Show her in," I said, solemnly, as I piled a heap of dusty papers on the table. I held my breath as a steady footfall came from without, and then a stately, middle-aged woman sailed into the room and sank into an arm-chair without a word.

I closed the door and stood before her.

"Good morning. Er—what may I do for you?" I broke out awkwardly.

"Nothing for me, thanks." A pause ensued, after which she asked, as if by a sudden inspiration, "You are not very well off, are you?"

The boldness of the question staggered me, and I was about to give a fitting retort, when, noticing my annoyance, she held up her gloved hand to interrupt me.

"You see, I never mince matters. As it happens, I know almost as much about your private affairs as you do yourself. Now, are you prepared to undertake a task that will pay you better than sitting here in the hope that someone will fall down in a fit outside your window? Mind, I must first tell you that you'll have to bind yourself under an oath of absolute secrecy as to all you are told or may discover. Before you give me your answer I should like you also to understand that you need have no fears, and that when I engage a medical man society invariably flatters me by employing the same individual, and drops him when I drop him."

For a moment I hesitated, but soon had my reply ready.

"Yes, I will undertake the task, believing, Lady Marchmont, that you mean me well. As to secrecy—well, I pledge my honour as a man of medicine. I can do no more."

"Good. And you know something of horse-racing?"

Once again her eccentricity startled me, but I replied that I knew a little.

"Good, also. You have my card. Come to the Hall at eight o'clock to-night. Good morning." And with a sigh of relief she got up and went to the door.

I sat down to think the matter out. I was taking a deep plunge, but it was too late to retract now, and, after all, it might be to my advantage. But what connection racing had with medicine I was at a loss to understand, and realising that my knowledge of the former was somewhat hazy, I picked up the daily paper and scanned the turf notes. Before long I found myself reading a paragraph that aroused my curiosity. It ran:—


"This year's Derby will probably be the least interesting on record, for there is not the slightest doubt but that Lady Marchmont's lovely animal, Seaflower, is bound to win hands down. There is no other horse with such pace and staying powers on the turf at the present moment, so the race may be considered as good as won already."


Puzzling over this, the latest addition to what seemed to be an increasing mystery, I allowed the hours to slowly pass until it was time to prepare for the journey.


IT was just striking eight by the village clock down the valley when the cab drew up before Marchmont Hall, and getting out I passed into the house through the door that had been already opened to admit me. A footman removed my coat and hat, and the next instant Lady Marchmont herself was by my side.

Without further parley she opened the door and we passed in. The room was dark, but a lamp, covered with a scarlet shade, threw a circle of light upon the bed, lighting up in weird relief the features of the man who lay there. I started back, and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation, for I recognised the patient's face. Two years since the illustrated papers had published pictures of Lord Marchmont, believing him to be dead. But he was not dead; he lay in the bed before me!

At a glance I saw he was dying, and a brief examination proved the truth of my surmise. I bared his chest to listen to his breathing, and as I did so saw tattooed upon his flesh the form of a double-headed dragon. His breath came in laboured gasps, and it was plainly evident that he had but a few hours to live. To attempt to save his life was useless, and, well aware of this, I beckoned to Lady Marchmont, and together we left the room and hurried downstairs.

Neither of us spoke until we had closed the door upon ourselves in a small room leading out of the hall. She motioned me to a chair as she turned up the gas, and then sat down facing me.

"I fear you have called me on a fruitless errand," I began.

"Not at all. I know he's dying. I asked you to see him because I may require a death-certificate later on."

"You would like me to stay here to-night?" I queried.

"No, no, there is no need. He cannot live. But I haven't done with you yet, Dr. Trevor. You will remember I asked you something about racing. I had an object in so doing."

"Obviously."

"The Derby comes off in two days' time, and—"

"Your horse, Seaflower, will win," I interrupted.

"Seaflower will not win. You're surprised, but it's a fact. Indeed, so sure am I of what I say that I have placed £50,000 to your credit at the bank to be laid against my horse!"

"But—you don't mean this?"

"Examine this bank-book and see."

"In a few words, this is what you have to do," she said, slightly smiling at my look of wonder. "You must back the second favourite, Challenger, but you will do so by stealth. The bets must be numerous, and not exceed a thousand pounds each. As you see by the papers, you'll get a good price, and when Challenger wins a handsome profit will be forthcoming. You will go to Epsom and see the race run, and as soon as the result is known hurry back to London, and come to me at Lady Rothbury's, in Cavendish-square."

"But you're going to see the race yourself, I suppose?"

"Certainly not. Racing, like society, bores me to death. Now, you understand that nothing but an accident can prevent Challenger winning, but in case anything should happen you will find a cheque for a thousand pounds made payable to yourself in the pocket of that book. If everything goes off properly you take five per cent of the winnings instead. That's all; I shall not see you again till Wednesday afternoon. Good-night."

"But how do you know Challenger will win?" I asked.

"Because Lord Marchmont will ride him," she responded, quietly.


I SUCCEEDED in reaching the station just as a train was starting, and jumped into a first-class carriage while it was on the move. The door banged-to behind me, and we were soon spinning through the country at a good, speed. In the corner opposite was a burly gentleman, who, upon my abrupt entrance, threw aside his paper to engage in conversation. We discussed the weather, treated politics in an equally ruthless manner, and then the topic changed to sport.

"Seaflower's right for the Derby," he volunteered.

"I believe so," I replied, carefully.

"Yes, Lady Marchmont knows a good piece of horse-flesh when she sees it. Sad thing her losing her husband two years ago, wasn't it?"

"Very."

"Just making his way in Parliament, too. I don't think he left her much. I happen to be in the insurance line, and I know he was very heavily insured, however. Some put it at a quarter of a million, and I reckon that's about the size of it."


THE following day I spent in London, laying all my newly-acquired wealth against Seaflower.

On the morning of the race the course was thronged with the same motley crowd that always assembles on such occasions.

"There goes Brigstock on Seaflower," said someone as a cheer went up. "'E's got a soft job to-day. And there's Joe Meadows on Challenger. Looks as if 'e's going to do 'is best, any'ow, don't 'e?"

"Rather. Where did he spring from?"

"Don't know. Wonderful what 'e's done when yer considers as 'ow this is only 'is second season."

These words caused my heart to give a bound and beat wildly. What did it all mean? I could only believe that this man Meadows was Lord Marchmont, and yet two days ago I had given up all hopes of his recovery!

"There you are! Challenger is catching him up! Seaflower's not going to win, after all. Good heavens! they're even! Challenger gains. Look! look! Seaflower's falling off!"

And then, almost as they reached the spot near where I stood, Challenger stumbled and came down with a sickening thud. The rider was thrown high in the air, and fell upon his head and lay still. Scarce knowing what I did, I broke through the cordon when the other horses had passed, and found myself kneeling over the jockey.

He was dead. I tore open his jacket and felt his heart. It had ceased to beat. And there tattooed upon the skin was the double-headed dragon!

Marchmont was dead and Seaflower had won! That was the news I had to carry back to Lady Marchmont.

A cab was whirling me in the direction of Cavendish-square, and I opened a paper a newsboy had thrust into my hand at the station. Something in the "Latest News" column caught my eye, causing me to hold my breath and look closer. It was but a small paragraph, but to me it explained much that I had thought I should never know. I read:—


"Derby Result: Challenger fell and threw Meadows, killing him instantly. Seaflower won, but within ten minutes of the finish fell down in a fit. Veterinary on course certifies slow poison having been administered during past twenty-four hours, which accounts for bad form during race. Fatal result feared. Matter is being investigated."


A few minutes later the cab drew up at the house and I jumped out.

"Is Lady Marchmont here?" I asked the footman.

"Yes, sir. Dr. Trevor, I believe?"

"The same. Please take me to her."

I was shown into a large drawing-room, where a number of ladies were seated discussing the race over the teacups.

"Seaflower is bound to win, Lady Marchmont," I heard one say, as I entered.

"Seaflower has won," I broke in, as I looked steadily at the owner. A slight fall of the lips, a flash of the eye, was all the emotion she displayed. Then she broke into a smile and clapped her hands.

"Splendid! Splendid! I knew he was bound to win!"

And I could not but admire the woman who suffered with such stoicism the failure of her schemes, the banishment of her hopes, and the crushing of her pride, for, as I afterwards discovered, it was her last endeavour to acquire the wealth that would enable her to maintain her place among her rich companions. And even now she knew not of the terrible tragedy to which I had been an eye-witness.


I ONLY met her once again, and that was when I entered Marchmont Hall to certify to the death of the man I had seen lying there, not Lord Marchmont, but his brother. The real lord, who for more than eighteen months had posed with success as a jockey for reasons that have been shown, was killed at the same time as his imbecile brother—so like him in appearance—passed away at the Hall.

A few days later I received a letter from Lady Marchmont telling me that she was tired of society, London, and things in general, and was leaving for abroad. I never betrayed her secret; in the first place because I owe my present position as a famous West-end physician to her recommendations; and secondly, because her struggle to regain the wealth her husband had squandered during his parliamentary career, though a criminal one, was the struggle of a woman at bay, and I am undecided as to whether, after all, she does not merit my pity rather than my loathing.

Not long ago I read that an English lady of title had perished among the Alps, and as I knew she was in the neighbourhood, and have heard nothing from her since, I often think I am wiser than the newspapers as to who the lady was.


THE END


Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.