

E-text prepared by Al Haines



A QUEEN'S ERROR

by

CAPTAIN HENRY CURTIES

Author of

  "The Blood Bond" "The Idol of the King"
  "Tears of Angels" "The Queen's Gate Mystery"
  "Out of the Shadows" Etc. Etc.







London
F. V. White & Co. Ltd.
17 Buckingham Street, Strand, W.C.
1911




CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I. A STRANGE VISIT
    II. THE MAN WITH THE GLASS EYE
   III. THE SECOND VISIT AND ITS RESULT
    IV. I AM DETAINED
     V. ARRESTED
    VI. PUT TO THE TORTURE
   VII. CRUFT'S FOLLY
  VIII. SANDRINGHAM
    IX. THE DUKE OF RITTERSHEIM
     X. THE PLOT THAT FAILED
    XI. THE _OCEANA_
   XII. HELD UP
  XIII. DON JUAN D'ALTA
   XIV. THE CASKET
    XV. THE ABBOT OF SAN JUAN
   XVI. THE CONFESSION OF BROOKS
  XVII. THE STEEL SAFE
 XVIII. THE OLD GRAVEYARD
   XIX. THE STRUGGLE IN THE TUNNEL
    XX. THE DEPARTURE OF THE DUKE
   XXI. MADAME LA COMTESSE
  XXII. THE QUEEN'S ERROR
 XXIII. THE QUEEN'S ATONEMENT




TO

SWEET KATHLEEN

OF

BATH




A QUEEN'S ERROR


CHAPTER I

A STRANGE VISIT

I turned the corner abruptly and found myself in a long, dreary street;
looking in the semi-fog and drizzle more desolate than those dismal
old-world streets of Bath I had passed through already in my aimless
wandering; I turned sharply and came almost face to face with her.

She was standing on the upper step, and the door stood open; the house
itself looked neglected and with the general appearance of having been
shut up for years.  The windows were grimed with dirt, and there was
that little accumulation of dust, pieces of straw, and little scraps of
paper, under the two steps which tells of long disuse.

She stood on the step, a figure slightly over the middle height,
leaning one hand on a walking stick, and her face fascinated me.

It was the face of an old lady of perhaps seventy, hale and healthful,
with fresh colour on the cheeks, and bands of perfectly white hair
falling over the ears.  But it was the expression which  attracted me;
it was peculiarly sweet and winning.

My halt could only have been momentary.  I recollected myself and was
passing on, when she spoke to me.

"Would you be so kind as to do me a favour, sir?" she asked.

The voice was as sweet and winning as her expression; though she spoke
perfect English, yet there was the very slightest _soupcon_ of a
foreign accent.  Of what country, I could not tell.

I stopped again as she spoke, and having perhaps among my friends a
little reputation for politeness to the weaker sex, especially the
older members of it--for I am not by way of being a Lothario, be it
said--I answered her as politely as I could.

"In what way may I be of service to you?"

She brought her walking stick round in front of her and leant upon it
with both hands as she made her request.  She then appeared, in the
fuller light of the yellow-flamed old-fashioned gas lamp opposite, to
be much older than I first thought.

"I want you, if you will," she said, "to come into this house for a few
minutes.  I wish to ask a further favour of you which I shall then have
an opportunity of explaining, but, on the other hand, the service I
shall ask will not go unrewarded."

Prepossessing though her appearance and address were, yet I hesitated.

I took another long look at her open face, white hair, and very correct
old lady's black hat secured by a veil tied under her chin.  It was
just such a hat as my own dear mother used to wear.

"You seem to hesitate," she remarked, noting, I suppose, my delay in
answering her; "but I assure you you have nothing to fear."

I took a sudden resolve, despite the many tragedies I had read of in
connection with empty houses; I would trust her.

There was something about her face which conveyed confidence.

"Very well," I replied, "if I can be of any use to you, I _will_ come
in."

"Thank you," she said, "then kindly follow me."

She turned and held the door for me to pass in; when I was inside she
closed it, and we stood almost in complete darkness, except for the
glimmering reflected light of the yellow street lamp opposite, which
struggled in through the dirty pane of glass over the door.

"Now," she added, "I will get a light."

She passed me and went to the hall table on which stood one of those
candlesticks in which the candle is protected by a glass chimney.  She
struck a match and lighted a candle.  "Now if you please," she added,
going on before me down the dark passage.  I saw now from her tottering
walk that she was much older and much more feeble than I had imagined.
I followed her and saw signs of dust and neglect on every side; the
house, I should say, had stood empty for many years.  But as I followed
the old lady one thing struck me, and that was, that instead of the
common candle which I would have expected her to use under the
circumstances, the one she carried in its glass protector was evidently
of fine wax.  She took me down a long passage, and we came to a flight
of stairs leading to the kitchens, I imagined.

"We must go down here," she announced.  "I am sorry to have to take you
to the basement, but it cannot be helped."  Again I had some slight
misgivings, but I braced myself.  I had made up my mind and I would go
forward.

I followed her as she went laboriously step by step down the flight.
At the bottom was the usual long basement passage, such as I expected
to see, but with this difference, it was swept and evidently well kept.

The old lady led on to the extreme end of this passage towards the back
of the house, then opened a door on the left hand and walked in.  At
her invitation I followed her and found her busily lighting more wax
candles fixed in old-fashioned sconces on the walls.  As each candle
burned up I was astonished to find the sort of room it revealed to me.

It was a lady's boudoir beautifully furnished and filled with works of
art; china, choice pictures, and old silver abounded on every side; on
the hearth burned a bright fire; on the mantelpiece was a very handsome
looking-glass framed in oak.  My companion, having lit six candles,
went to the windows to draw down the blinds.  I interposed and saved
her this exertion by doing it myself.

I then became aware that the house, like so many others in Bath, was
built on the side of a hill, the front door being on a level with the
street, whilst the lower back windows even commanded lovely views over
the beautiful valley, the town, and the distant hills beyond.

Below me innumerable lights twinkled out in the streets through the
misty air, while here and there brightly lit tram cars wound through
the town or mounted the hills.  Thick though the air was the sight was
exceedingly pretty.

I could now understand how even a room situated as this was in the
basement of a house could become habitable and pleasant.  The voice of
the old lady recalled me to myself as I pulled down the last blind.

"I am sorry to have to bring you down here," she said.  "It is hardly
the sort of room in which a lady usually receives visitors, but you
will perhaps understand my liking for it when I tell you that I have
lived here many years."

The information surprised me.

"Whatever induced you to do that?" I asked without thinking, then
recollected that I had no right to ask the question.  "You must excuse
my question," I added, "but I fear you find it very lonely unless you
have some one living with you?"

"I live here," she replied, "absolutely alone, and yet I am never
lonely."

"You have some occupation?" I suggested.

"Yes," she replied, "I write for the newspapers."

This piece of information astounded me more than ever.  I imagined it
to be the last place from which "copy" would emanate for the present
go-ahead public prints, and the old lady to be the last person who
could supply it.

She saw my puzzled look, and came to my aid with further information.

"Not the newspapers of this country," she added, "the newspapers of--of
foreign countries."

I was more satisfied with this answer; the requirements of most foreign
journals had not appeared to me to be excessive.

"I too am a brother of the pen," I answered, "I write books of sorts."

The old lady broke into a very sweet smile which lighted up her
charming old face.

"Permit me to shake hands," she suggested, "with a fellow-sufferer in
the cause of Literature."

I took her hand and noted its soft elegance, old though she was.

She crossed to a carved cupboard which was fixed in the wall, and took
from it a tiny Venetian decanter, two little glasses, and a silver
cigarette case.

"We must celebrate this meeting," she suggested with another smile, "as
disciples of the pen."

She filled the two little glasses with what afterwards proved to be
yellow Chartreuse, and held one glass towards me.

"Pray take this," she suggested, "it will be good for you after being
out in the damp air."

I took the tiny glass of yellow liqueur in which the candlelight
sparkled, and sipped it; it was superb.

"Now," she continued, indicating an armchair on the farther side of the
fireplace, "sit and let us talk."

I took the chair, and she opened the silver box of cigarettes and
pushed them towards me.

"I presume you smoke?" she suggested.  "I smoke myself habitually; I
find it a great resource and comfort.  I lived for a long time in a
country where all the ladies smoked."

I took a cigarette, lit a match, and handed her a light; she lit her
cigarette with a grace born of long habit.

"Now," she said, as I puffed contentedly, "I can tell you what I have
to say in comfort."

I certainly thought I had made a good exchange from the raw air of the
street to this comfortable fireside.

"It will not interest you now," she continued, "to hear the reasons
which have moved me to live here so long as I have done; that is a
story which would take too long to tell you.  All the preamble I wish
to make to my remark is this; that the favour I shall ask of you is one
that you can fulfil without the slightest injury to your honour.  On
the contrary it will be an act of kindness and humanity which no one in
the world could object to."

"I feel sure of that," I interposed with a bow, "you need not say
another word on that point."

I was really quite falling in love with the old lady, and her old-world
courtesy of manner.

"I will then come straight to the point," she proceeded, taking a
curious key from her pocket; it was a key with a finely-wrought handle
in which was the letter C.

"I want you to open a secret drawer in this room, which, since its
hiding-place was contrived, has been known only to me and to one other,
the workman who made it, a Belgian long since dead.  Please take this
key."

I took it.

"Now," she continued, "cast your eyes round this room, and see if you
can detect where the secret safe is hidden."

I looked round the room as she wished, and could see nothing which gave
me the slightest clue to it.

"No," I said, "I can see nothing which has any resemblance to a safe."

She laughed, and, rising from her seat, turned to the fireplace and
touched a carved rose in the frame of the handsome over-mantel;
immediately the looking-glass moved up by itself in its frame,
disclosing, apparently, the bare wall.

"Please watch me," proceeded the old lady.

She placed her finger on a certain part of the pattern of the wall
paper beneath, and the whole of that part of the pattern swung forward;
behind was a safe, apparently of steel, evidently a piece of foreign
workmanship.

"Please place the key in the lock, and turn it," she asked, "but do not
open the safe."

I regarded her proceedings with much interest, and rose from my chair
and did as she asked.

"Thank you," she said, when she heard the lock click and the bolts
shoot back, "now will you lock it again?"

I did so.

"Now please put the key in your pocket, and take care of it for me.  I
give you full authority to open that safe again in case of necessity."

"What necessity?" I asked.

"You will discover that in due course," she answered.

This was about the last thing I should have expected her to ask, but
nevertheless I did as she told me and put the key in my pocket.

"Please notice how I close it again," was her next request.

She pushed back the displaced square of the wall paper pattern, which
was simply the door of a cupboard.  It closed with a snap and fitted so
exactly into the pattern of the paper that it was impossible to detect
it.

Then with a glance towards me to see that I was paying attention, she
touched a carved rose on the frame of the over-mantel on the opposite
side to that which had caused the looking-glass to move, and at once
the latter slowly slid down again into its place.

I stood gazing at her as this was accomplished, and she noted the look
of inquiry on my face.

"There is only one thing now I have to ask you," she said, "and then I
will detain you no longer.  Will you oblige me by coming to see me here
at five o'clock to-morrow?"

I considered for a moment or two, and then recollected that there was
nothing in my engagements for the next day to prevent my complying with
the old lady's request.  My life for the last week had been occupied in
taking the baths and the waters at regular intervals, with the daily
diversion of the Pump Room concert at three.

"Yes," I answered, "I shall be very pleased to come and see you again
at five to-morrow."

Although up to now I looked upon her proceedings as simply the whims of
an eccentric old lady, yet I felt some considerable interest in them.

"Then let me fill your glass again with liqueur?" she suggested.
Alluring as the offer was I declined it.

I buttoned up my overcoat and prepared to depart, accepting, however,
the offer of another cigarette.

The old lady insisted upon accompanying me to the door, and went on in
front with a candle, despite my remonstrances, to show me the way
upstairs.

She had one foot on the stair when she stopped.

"Do you mind telling me your name?" she asked.

I handed her my card, and she put up her glasses.

"'William Anstruther,'" she read.  "That is a coincidence."  "I had
nearly forgotten one thing," she continued.  "I must give you a
duplicate latch-key to let yourself in with.  I have a habit of falling
asleep in the afternoon, and you might ring the bell for half an hour
and I should not hear you."

She went back into the room we had left and returned in a few moments
with the latch-key, which she gave me.

Despite my endeavours to persuade her, she went with me to the front
door, and I felt a deep pity for her when I left, thinking that she was
to spend the night alone in that dismal old house.

"_Au revoir_ until five to-morrow," I said cheerfully, as I bowed and
left her.

She smiled benignantly upon me.

"_Au revoir_," she answered.

When the door had closed and it was too late to call her back, I
recollected one piece of forgetfulness on my part; I had never thought
to ask her name!




CHAPTER II

THE MAN WITH THE GLASS EYE

I took a note of the number of the house--it was 190 Monmouth
Street--and gazed a little while at its neglected exterior before I
walked away into the mist towards my hotel.

Over the whole of the front windows faded Venetian blinds were drawn
down; it was one of those houses, sometimes met with, shut up for no
apparent reason, and without any intention on the part of the owner,
apparently, to dispose of it, for there was no board up.  It was not
until later that I learned that the house belonged to the old lady
herself.

I returned to my hotel, that luxurious resort of the wealthy and
rheumatic, its well furnished interior looking particularly comfortable
in the ruddy glow of two immense fires in the hall.  I had left it
early in the afternoon, before the lamps were lit, tired of being
indoors; the change was most agreeable from the damp, misty atmosphere
without.

I betook myself to the smoking-room, and, being a lover of the
beverage, ordered tea, with the addition of buttered toast.  Delighted
with the big glowing fire in the room, and believing myself to be
alone, I threw myself back luxuriously into a big, saddle-bag chair.

As it ran back with the impetus of my descent into it, it jammed into
one behind, and from this immediately arose a very indignant face which
looked into mine as I turned round.  It was a dark, foreign-looking
face, the red face of a man who wore a black moustache and a little
imperial, and whose bloodshot brown eyes simply _glared_ through a pair
of gold-rimmed pince-nez.  There was something very strange about these
eyes.

"I really beg your pardon," I said.  "I didn't know you were there!"

The fierce expression of the bloodshot eyes changed to one of somewhat
forced amiability.

