Cleta, listening to his music, smiled to herself. She knew that Loreto’s mind was not entirely absorbed by his playing, for upon the otherwise bare music-holder was propped a newspaper, and it was folded at the latest report of what had become known as the “Death Diary Murders.”
It was inevitable that the conversation at Lady Groombridge’s dinner-table should turn upon the “Death Diary Murders.” The newspapers were full of the affair at the time, and probably regretted having used up their superlatives on so many minor events.
“Of course the murderer must be mad, and poor Lilian Hope was undoubtedly insane in her declining years,” declared Lady Groombridge, glaring round the table.
Lady Groombridge was one of those strong but by no means silent women whose views are invariably decided, especially when they are incorrect.
“These murders are the blind, unreasoning crimes of a lunatic,” she resumed. “They are without motive, and that is why they have baffled the police. The very cunning of them is the cunning of a lunatic.” Her keen eyes roved around the table, and fell upon Loreto Santos. “Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Santos?” she urged. “You are the expert upon these dreadful matters.”
Loreto nodded gravely.
“I think most murderers are mad,” he said. “Certainly this vendetta and these killings are insensate. There is no faintest reason for such revenge. I have seen the pages torn from poor Lilian Hope’s diary, and obviously what she wrote was merely the outpourings of a bitter and disappointed woman — a woman beside herself with illness, poverty, and suffering. There was no truth in the accusations she brought against people who had always been her loyal friends.”
A little murmur ran round the table at his words, and a voice, speaking English with a slight French accent, broke out with a question:
“Who was Lilian Hope, and what exactly are these murders you speak of?”
The questioner was Otisse — Henri Otisse, the explorer, who had just returned from the upper reaches of the Amazon. His small, dark head and yellow, sun-scorched face was turned inquiringly around, and immediately a storm of verbal explanation broke out from the assembled diners.
Through all this buzzing, Lady Groombridge’s resolute voice boomed out, and dispersed the others as a motor-horn scatters a flock of roadside chickens.
“My dear Mr. Otisse,” she exclaimed, “you are probably the only man in England who doesn’t know the whole pitiable story. Poor Lilian Hope was once one of our famous English beauties. She was a musical comedy singer, and though her voice was not really fine, her loveliness made one forget that. She was one of the first to have a picture postcard vogue, though she must have been nearly forty at that time. People would wait hours to see her get into her carriage, she was so popular. She had many exalted friends and walked with kings, and yet at the end she disappeared into obscurity and direst poverty. Some say she sold flowers in Piccadilly. It is true that she died in a miserable garret, where she had lived for years under another name.”
“But her diary?” asked Otisse, pulling at his small dark moustache. “This diary that they call in the journals the ‘Diary of Death’ — how did she come to write that, and to whom did she leave it?”
“That is the mystery,” announced Lady Groombridge. “Lilian Hope died in such obscurity that it has been impossible so far to trace the few miserable possessions that she left behind. In her last years she apparently kept a diary in which she poured out vindictive and bitter accusations against her former friends. She stated that these friends had abandoned her, scorned her, refused her the slightest assistance.
“Of course, the poor woman was beside herself with illness and want. Her friends would have helped her if they had known where she was. Lilian Hope’s wild accusations were without foundation, but they have resulted in terrible consequences. Somehow, her diary has come into the possession of an avenger, a man — if it is a man — more insane than poor Lilian Hope ever was.”
Henri Otisse nodded quickly.
“I read a little in the journals,” he said. “Someone has already killed two of these people said to have refused aid to Lilian Hope, n’est-ce pas?”
Lady Groombridge sipped her wine and glared at her attentive guests.
“Yes. Already two worthy and respectable people have been struck down by this unknown madman. Two have been killed in three months. Dr. Stapleton Clarke, a fine old man and a real philanthropist, was found shot in his study, and beside him was a page torn from Lilian Hope’s diary; a page in which she accused the poor man, in the wildest language, of callous indifference to her sufferings, and refusal to give her financial assistance. As though the old doctor would refuse anyone help, least of all a woman with whom he had once been upon terms of friendship! The writing found beside that old man’s body was hysterical and insane.
“The same thing applies to the murder of poor old Isidore Gorden. He was for years the manager of the Beaumont Theatre, and a kinder man never lived, yet he was found stabbed in the garden of his house at Maidenhead, and an equally hysterical accusation, torn from the fatal diary, lay upon his body. Apparently, too, Gorden had received pages of the ‘Death Diary’ — as the papers call it — several times before he died. Undoubtedly they were sent by the murderer to his victim, and they were enclosed in common envelopes addressed with a typewriter.”
“And others are threatened?” asked Otisse. “Has this mad avenger sent other diary pages to fresh victims?”
“One can’t tell,” replied his hostess. “Dr. Stapleton Clarke probably received pages of the diary, and it is thought he destroyed them without telling anyone about it. Lilian Hope had many friends, and she may have ranted against all of them. It is terrible. There is no knowing who may be the next victim.”
“So far there have only been two murders,” broke in one of the women guests. “And both have been committed in the last three months. The police have a theory that Lilian Hope’s diary has somehow fallen into the hands of an old lover of hers, and this man is carrying out a vendetta. They think that either this murderer has only recently acquired the ‘Death Diary’ or else that he has had it ever since Lilian Hope’s death, and that he has recently gone out of his mind. You see, only a madman would take this hysterical diary so seriously.”
Otisse demurred slightly.
“Surely a man who loved this unfortunate woman might well believe that her diary spoke the truth?” he suggested.
“Not if the man read the diary in the light of reason and common sense,” said Loreto Santos. “The diary pages found in poor Gorden’s desk were the outpourings of a pathological subject. These writings of Lilian Hope have been submitted to alienists and handwriting experts, and all the authorities are agreed that the poor woman was insane. The reputation of the murdered men was of the highest, and Lilian Hope, if she had been in her right mind, would never have accused her friends as she did. This murderer, of course, is mad.”
“Of course,” echoed Lady Groombridge. “The whole thing is a terrible tragedy. One wonders who will be next upon this mad creature’s list. There is Sir George Frame, who is joining our party to-night — he couldn’t arrive in time for dinner — now, who knows, he may be a future victim. Poor old man, he is seventy-two years of age, but he was a close friend of Lilian Hope.”
Presently the long formal dinner was at an end, and Lady Groombridge rose from the table, carrying the women with her. In the billiard-room the men lit their cigars, and Loreto looked about him curiously. Lady Groombridge was a resolute hunter of London’s “lions,” and the guests were an interesting crowd.