Chapter XXXII Livenza’s Revenge
The young King was no longer with the Queen Regent when I entered, and I found two or three of the chief Ministers of State in conference with her.
The news of the assassination had caused profound dismay, intensified in the case of the Queen Regent by the fact that it had followed with such dramatic swiftness upon the heels of my charges against the powerful and favourite Minister.
“You have heard of this fearful deed, Lord Glisfoyle?” was the Queen’s question on my entrance.
“I have learnt it within the last few minutes in the ante-chamber, your Majesty.”
“I have told my lords here the strange charges you brought against Senor Quesada. Do you still maintain them?”
“In every word and detail, Madame,” and, at her request, I repeated to them everything I had said before.
“It is certainly a most extraordinary story,” said one of them, the Duke of Novarro, Minister of War, in a tone which suggested unbelief and hostility.
“And the most extraordinary part of it, my lord,” I replied, “is the fact that he was enabled to lay all these plans without anyone of his colleagues or associates having a suspicion of the truth. No doubt if the dead man’s papers are secured in time, they will yield abundant proof of everything.” The hint was acted upon at once, and messengers were despatched to see that this was done.
“Can you throw any light upon the motive for this deed?” asked the Duke.
“I have not heard the actual circumstances, but the Minister was a man who had made many enemies, private as well as public. I should look for the murderer among his private enemies.” And even as I spoke, my own words prompted a thought, and the closing scene at Calvarro’s farm flashed across my mind.
“Do you mean you would not set this down to Carlist feeling?” he asked next, in the same tone of unbelief.
“It was an act of private revenge, no more and no less,” I answered firmly, “and I believe that I can find the means to prove it so.” The suggestion was welcome to all present. The murder of a colleague from private motives was obviously a far less disturbing event to Ministers than an assassination designed as a protest against Ministerial policy. But the Duke was none the less hostile to me.
“Her Majesty has informed us that your lordship has gone so far as to request an amnesty for these Carlists as the return for the services you have rendered to the nation and the Throne by the rescue of the King. But you will of course understand that, now at any rate, such a request cannot be conceded.”
“His Majesty himself gave me a pledge that such favour as I asked should be granted,” I returned.
“His Majesty is too young to understand the needs of policy, my lord; and the pledge was given before this had occurred. Everything is changed by such a deed.”
“His Majesty is not too young to keep his word,” I retorted, bluntly.
“The pardon of any individual conspirator might still be granted, Lord Glisfoyle,” interposed the Queen, pointedly, “provided no complicity in this were found.” I understood her meaning, but would not yield my point.
“I have your Majesty’s gracious assurance that in the event of my proving the charges I have brought, my claims would be hard to resist whatever the favour I asked.”
“You surely cannot think of pressing this, now,” was her reply, with a dash of surprise.
“Most respectfully I must press it with all the power and force at my command; and with all submission to your Majesty, I am bound to say, I can prefer no other and no less request. There is no proof that this is a Carlist outrage.”
My firmness was altogether unwelcome, and the Queen and her Ministers showed both irritation and impatience at my persistence. But I cared nothing for that. I was fighting for what I believed would be the one certain method of winning Sarita and removing her last objections, and I would not give way.
“Your solicitude for these miscreants is out of place, my lord, and what you ask is a sheer impossibility,” said the Duke, haughtily. “Any further insistence must, as you will see, wear a curious look. These wretches are none the less traitors because their first plot failed. This second stroke has not failed.”
“Had the man who has met this tragic death succeeded in his project, my lord Duke; if the young King were not only abducted but put to death; if the Monarchy had been overthrown and a Republic proclaimed in its place; if Her Majesty here were an exile from her kingdom, yourselves in danger, and the country in the throes of a bloody revolution, would you have deemed it then too great a price to have paid for the stroke which would have prevented everything? That was what the rescue of the young King meant, nothing less; and it will not be affected by Senor Quesada’s death, if I can prove it to have been a private act. But as you will,” I said, indignantly, after a moment’s pause, “I trusted to the royal pledge, and if you, my lords, advise that the royal word of honour shall be broken, I, of course, can say no more. May I crave your Majesty’s permission to withdraw?”
It was a bold stroke, but it did more to help me than hours of argument and wrangling. At the mention of her son’s death the Queen winced and grew suddenly pale, and came over at once to my side.
“What Lord Glisfoyle urges is true, gentlemen,” she said, “and he who saved the King, my son, cannot be allowed to find my ears deaf to his plea. What you ask, Lord Glisfoyle, shall be granted, if you can prove this crime to be no Carlist outrage, and if my influence and my son’s will stand for aught in the councils of Spain.” She spoke proudly and almost sternly, and the others were as much discomfited as I was elated.
“I beg your Majesty to pardon my frankness of speech,” I said, with the utmost deference, “and to accept my most earnest and heartfelt gratitude. I believe that already I know where to look for the man who has done this, and with your permission will at once set about the search. May I ask that the powers and services of the police may be placed at my disposal?”
“You shall have anything and every thing you desire, Lord Glisfoyle. If you desire to leave at once the necessary authority shall be sent after you to your hotel.”
I bowed myself out then, and drove in hot haste to the Hotel de l’Opera in search of Mayhew. The news of the assassination of Quesada had reached the hotel, and I found them all in a mood of deep concern, and full of anxiety to learn the result of my long interview at the Palace.
“I have not time for a word now, except that I have gained all I wished on one condition—that I trace the man who killed Quesada, and prove it murder and not a Carlist assassination.”
“But you cannot,” cried Mayhew. “It’s all over the city that——”
“I can and will,” I broke in. “But listen, my dear fellow. Important documents will come to me from the Palace in a few minutes. I am going now to Quesada’s house, and I wish you to bring them to me there the instant they arrive;” and without waiting another moment I was hurrying away, when my sister cried:
“Let me come with you, Ferdinand. That poor girl will be in such sorrow.”
“A good thought, Mercy. Quick;” and we drove away together.
But at Quesada’s I met with a check. The police were in possession of the house and would not admit me, though I urged and insisted and stormed in turns. Senor Rubio was there in charge, and nothing would move him. There was no option, therefore, except to await the arrival of the necessary authority; and scribbling a hasty note to the Duke of Novarro to tell him the state of matters and to urge despatch, I sent Mercy with it to the Palace in search of him.
Then I tried to curb my impatience while I waited, and to occupy the time I made an examination of the outside of the house in the possible hope of some discovery which might help me.
I was thoroughly convinced that the murder was the act of Juan Livenza, and that I should find he had been at the house and had seen Quesada. I could not get a single question answered, however, and even my scrutiny of the exterior of the house and the grounds brought police interference.
But this was not before I had seen that which set me thinking hard. The window of the library in which I had last seen Quesada, the room he chiefly used, overlooked the garden at the rear, and one of the panes of glass was broken. An examination of the stonework underneath it, and of the ground immediately below, revealed marks which seemed to tell me how such a deed might well have been committed.
One or two branches of a shrub close to the wall were broken and bent, and one of the stones, which projected beyond the rest sufficiently to afford a precarious foothold, was slightly chipped and scraped on the edge. It was just such a mark as might have been caused by a man standing on it to look into the window, and on making the experiment I found that a man of Livenza’s height, which was about my own, could easily have grasped the stone sill, looked into the room, and fired a revolver through the broken pane.
Just as I had made this discovery the police ordered me away from the house, and I went back to the front to wait for my tarrying authority. Mercy brought it. The Duke had been at the Palace, and on the receipt of my note had given her a paper which he declared would do all I wished until the more formal authority should be ready.
Armed with this I summoned Rubio, showed it him, and with my sister was admitted to the house. I sent her at once in search of Dolores while I questioned Rubio.
“You see my authority, Senor Rubio; be good enough to tell me all you know of the matter, and as quickly as possible.”
“We know very little as yet. His Excellency was alone in the library when I arrived to see him on business. The servant took my name to him, and came running back in alarm, crying that he was lying dead on the floor, having dropped out of his chair where he had been sitting. He was as dead as a coffin, shot through the head, here in the temple,” and he put his hand to his own head to indicate the place.
“How do you suppose it happened?”
“No one can tell, senor. He had been dead perhaps half an hour, so the doctors said; no one was with him, and no one was known to have seen him for perhaps an hour before that time. No cry was heard; no sound, indeed; and yet he was dead. The Carlists must have obtained admission to the house secretly, and have escaped as they came.”
“Take me to the room,” I said, and he led the way in silence. “Show me exactly where he was found.” He pointed out the spot. “Now just sit in that chair a moment;” and, much wondering, he took his seat at Quesada’s writing table. I stood on the side away from the window, and a glance was enough to show me that his head was in a direct line with the broken pane of glass.
“Was the window fastened?” I asked.
“Yes, I myself examined it.”
“That broken pane of glass?”
“It was broken by his Excellency himself to-day, and he had given orders for the repair of it.”
The answer surprised me, but a moment’s reflection showed me what might have happened.
“How came it broken, and when; do you know?”
“How, I do not know; but it was done when Colonel Livenza was here to-day, closeted with his Excellency. They were, as perhaps you know, senor, closely associated together.” There was a furtive, half eager, half alarmed, and wholly cunning look on Rubio’s face, which sent the thought flashing upon me that he could say a good deal of Quesada’s private matters if he pleased.
“I know much more than you think, Senor Rubio. These two were close friends, you say; did they part to-day on friendly terms?”
“I was not here, senor,” was the guarded reply.
But I could read the facts without his help. Livenza had come to demand an explanation, and intended, no doubt, to wreak his revenge on the spot. There had been a quarrel, and probably some kind of tussle, in which this window had been broken. Livenza had for some reason abstained from shooting Quesada there and then; but he had been quick to see that if he left and went round to the back of the house, he could fire at his victim through the broken window, and kill him without anyone suspecting the act. I got some confirmation of this theory by questioning the servant, who had seen his master after Livenza had left the house, and had noticed that he was unusually excited and angry.
There was the fact that no sound of a pistol shot had been heard; but the room had double doors and a heavy portiere curtain, and this might well account for such a thing. I was, at any rate, satisfied with my theory, and while I was with Rubio, Mayhew arrived with the official papers placing the police services at my disposal. I showed them to him, and they increased his apprehension.
“I shall do all I can to help you, senor,” he assured me, nervously.
“You will find it safer,” said I, significantly. “Have any of Senor Quesada’s papers been removed?”
“None,” he answered, with a slight start.
“Well, then my friend Mr. Mayhew here, of the British Embassy, will remain and see that everything is sealed. And now tell me, do you suspect anyone of this murder?”
“It is the work of the cursed Carlists, of course. His Excellency’s life was more than once attempted by them.”
“Put that idea out of your head. This was a private crime, and we have to bring it home to the murderer. Where is Senorita Castelar?” I put the question abruptly, and looked at him fixedly. He started very uneasily.
“She could not do it.”
“I am perfectly aware of that, but I must know at once where she is. Understand, your future will depend upon your answering me frankly. You know quite well where she is, for you have been Senor Quesada’s instrument in all that business. When you arrested her at the station yesterday, where did you take her, and to what place did you remove her afterwards?”
“She was taken to the prison of San Antonio, and afterwards removed by his Excellency’s orders—I don’t know where.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, bluntly. “I know you are lying, indeed, and if you don’t tell me the truth on the spot, the first use I’ll make of this authority will be to have you clapped into gaol yourself, and the whole of your private papers searched. And you know as well as I what we shall find among them. I’ll give you two minutes to choose.”
“I don’t know, senor, I don’t, upon my soul; and, by the Holy Saints, I swear I don’t,” he cried, eagerly, panic-stricken by the threat.
“One of your minutes is gone. Silas, call up a couple of the gendarmes;” and Mayhew turned to the door.
“Stop, senor, stop for the love of Heaven. I don’t know. I wish to help you; I swear I do. But I’m innocent of everything. Give me time to think.”
“Your innocence wears a strange dress, Rubio, and I won’t give you another second.”
“I can tell you what I think, senor,” said the bully, trembling like a child. “It is most likely his Excellency would have had the senorita taken to a house at Escorias, which I believe he had prepared for her.”
“If your thoughts are wrong you’ll find yourself in a hole. Now, a last question. Is it possible that Colonel Livenza can have found this out in any way?”
“Mother of Angels, I believe I see it now,” he exclaimed, excitedly, and then was silent.
“You are either hiding some fact or hatching another lie,” I said, sternly. “I should have thought you could see the danger of that with me.”
“I will tell you, senor, I will, indeed, everything. I came to this house this afternoon in consequence of a message from his Excellency. He had for some time had a suspicion that Colonel Livenza had played him false—there was, I believe, something in which you yourself were concerned with the colonel. A warrant was made out and handed to me, and I was to wait for further instructions before making the arrest. This afternoon his Excellency rang me up on the telephone—his instrument is on the table here, you see—and he was speaking to me when the message broke off suddenly. He had got as far as this—‘Go to Escorias and execute the warrant I gave you recently to arrest——’ There it stopped, and I remember now there was a sharp noise I could not understand. I thought something was wrong with the wires. I waited for him to speak again, and when nothing came through I spoke to him and rang the bell. But I could get no answer, and in the end thought it best to come to the house for further instructions. I thought he might wish the senorita removed again, and came up to see.”
“Then you did know where she was,” I said, pointedly. “And I’m glad you see the prudence of treating me frankly. How do we get to Escorias?”
“We can drive in less than two hours, senor.” I rang the bell and ordered the fastest pair of horses in Quesada’s stable to be put in at once, and while waiting for them, told Mayhew what I wished in regard to the dead man’s papers. As soon as the carriage came, I took Rubio and one of his assistants with me, and ordered the coachman to drive at top speed to Escorias.
Everything seemed clear to me now, and this unexpected development filled me with a new fear for Sarita’s safety. Livenza, full of his wild passion for revenge, had gone to Quesada, and a fiery interview had taken place between the two, in which the Minister’s old ascendancy over the weaker man had so far asserted itself, that the latter had been unable to carry out his purpose in the room. He had either discovered, or Quesada, with the probable object of pacifying him, had told him where Sarita was detained, and had very likely suggested that he should go and take her away at once—calculating with diabolical cunning that the temptation to Livenza to see her again and have her in his power, would prove irresistible. In this way the Minister had saved his life for the moment, and when Livenza had left, Quesada had planned to have him arrested. In the meantime, the murderer had seen his way to achieve both his purposes—to kill his victim secretly, by shooting him from the garden, through the broken window, and then to rush off to Sarita. He had thus probably heard the broken telephone message being spoken, and at the dramatic moment when Quesada’s attention would be fixed on the telephone and his ears covered by the receivers, the shot had been fired with instantly fatal results.
So certain was my belief in my theory, and so vivid the impressions I had gathered, that I could picture in my thoughts every step and act in the progress of the tragedy. But there was one question I could not answer: and the thought of it filled me with an acute pang of alarm.
What were Livenza’s intentions in regard to Sarita?
In the room at Calvarro’s farm, his passion for her had been at first chilled by his fear of me, and then dominated by the even fiercer passion of revenge upon the man who had duped and out-witted him. But this thirst for revenge had now been sated by the death of Quesada, and who could say what wild form the recrudescence of the mad love-passion would assume?
Sarita, as I knew from her own lips, had fooled him. She had allowed him to make love to her; had possibly fed his passion with subtle but dangerous suggestions of a response to his love; and had won him for the Carlists by these desperate means because no others were present to her hand. My own words of warning to her recurred to me; and if he succeeded in forcing his way to her now that his enemy and master was dead, what limit could I believe he would place to his violence?
I had always regarded him as a man liable to be driven by passion across the borderland between sanity and madness; he had passed through more than one crisis of acute mental shock within the last few days; and it was more than probable that the deed of blood he had just committed, itself the act of a madman, would suffice to rob him of the last vestige of sane responsibility.
He would go to Sarita with the blood of their mutual oppressor still hot on his murderous hands, and if we were not in time to save her from him, what hope was there for her? I knew how she would receive him; and the thought maddened me until in my burning impatience I could not sit still, but thrust my head out of the carriage-window to urge the driver constantly to fresh exertions, although we were already travelling at headlong speed.
I was on fire with eagerness, and racked with alarm at the looming possibility of failure, even when all had gone so well.