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THE MISSING BRIDE

ONE of the most peculiar cases of duplicity that Tatlock was ever called upon to investigate was that which came to be known as 'the Gyde Abduction Case.' It was peculiar in many respects, more particularly in the cunning, the artfulness, and cruelty displayed. Indeed, there are few parallels to it, and it furnishes us with one more powerful example of the depths to which human wickedness is capable of reaching. If the story were the invention of the romance-writer, the superlatively clever people who write the reviews for the papers would pooh-pooh it as absurdly improbable; but one need only go to real life to find the groundwork for comedies and tragedies which make invention seem ridiculous. The everyday life of almost any large community is marked by sensations which out-romance all the romances ever evolved from clever brains. The story here told needs no florid hyperbole to make it attractive. It can be set down in plain, straightforward, narrative form, with the certainty of exercising a fascination over those who take an interest in human problems.

Miss Margaret Farnell was about twenty years or age. She was petite, unsophisticated, very pretty, and of a gentle and confiding disposition. She fell in love with Gilbert Gyde, who was about eight years her senior; by profession a barrister, by inclination a dilettante. He was the son of a wealthy man, who, however, was not very liberal; and as Gilbert was a third son, it seemed as if his prospects were not particularly bright. On the other hand, however, he was clever, and, while he loved not law, he wooed literature, | | 58 and a facile pen found ready employment by the magazines and big weeklies. A striking feature of this case is that Gilbert's eldest brother, John, reputable heir to a snug estate roughly valued at four thousand a year, was the first wooer of Margaret. For reasons, however, which she, in her woman's way, could no doubt have justified, Margaret gave up John Gyde, and accepted the attentions of Gilbert. This led to family differences on both sides. John was of a vindictive, unforgiving nature, and it was an open secret that he had declared he would never recognise his brother Gilbert again.

James Farnell, Margaret's father, falls to be described as 'a decayed gentleman,' a somewhat vague description truly, and with a certain objectionable suggestiveness about it. Put into plain language, James was the son of a man who had distinguished himself at Oxford, but nowhere else. He succeeded to a fortune, sat in Parliament as representative of a small borough, had a somewhat disreputable connection with a lady of title, squandered his fortune, was compelled by force of circumstances to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds—in other words, resign his seat in Parliament—and afterwards became private secretary to Lord Tintern, with whose youngest daughter he contracted a secret marriage. When this became known to her father he disowned her, and she and her husband had to struggle to live. They had a family of four children, one girl—Margaret—and three boys. Mr. Farnell was clever, well educated, and well connected, but he lacked stability of purpose, and spent his time and energy in railing against Fate instead of exerting himself in trying to improve his position.

Margaret Farnell and Gilbert Gyde were married, not amidst rejoicing, and with the clashing of marriage bells shivering in the air, and flowers and gay dresses lending light, colour, and picturesqueness to the scene. Their marriage took place in a gloomy, mouldy church, on a drizzling, slushy, sloppy day, and with only the gouty old verger and the asthmatical old female pew-cleaner and a cousin of the bride and a friend of the bridegroom present. Nothing could have | | 59 been more depressing, more sombre, more unorthodox, in the conventional and social sense, than this wedding. Nor was the ceremony followed by congratulations, luncheon, the drinking of health and happiness, and the merrymaking usually associated with marriage in a respectable walk in life. The young couple drove in a musty-smelling common four-wheeler from the church to Euston Station, whence they got the train to Edinburgh, where they intended to spend a week and then go on to Inverness and Loch Maree. Four days after the wedding, however, Tyler Tatlock, the detective, at the urgent solicitation of the distracted bride-groom, was searching for the bride, who had been mysteriously spirited away. The circumstances were curious enough, and pointed, obviously, to a conspiracy. All that could be gathered at the time was this:

Mr. and Mrs. Gyde were staying at the Balmoral Hotel. They had dined as usual at half-past six. Then Mr. Gyde had betaken himself to the smoking-room to indulge in a cigar, while his wife went upstairs to her bedroom to attire herself to attend a swell concert for which her husband had procured tickets. Mr. Gyde sipped his coffee, smoked his cigar leisurely, and glanced over the London papers, as the concert was not to begin until half-past eight.

At a quarter-past eight he went upstairs to see if his wife was ready, but she was not in the bedroom. Her fan, opera-glasses, a pocket scent-bottle, her gloves, and a cambric handkerchief were on the dressing-table, suggesting thereby that she had temporarily gone out of the room. So Mr. Gyde washed his hands, brushed his hair, and put on his hat. It was then half-past eight, and his wife had not come back. Then he noticed for the first time that her hat and cloak were gone. He rang the bell, and inquired of the chambermaid if she knew where his wife was. The maid could give no information, so Gyde went downstairs. He looked in the reading-room, the drawing-room, but failed to find his wife. He sauntered to the door, thinking she might have run out to some neighbouring shop for some trifle necessary for her toilet.

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A quarter to nine chimed by the Tron clock. The concert commenced at half-past eight, but still there was no sign of Mrs. Gyde. Gilbert went upstairs again. On the dressing-table there were still the fan, opera-glasses, and other odds and ends, which the lady had evidently placed there. The husband was puzzled, but not alarmed. He felt satisfied that his wife had run out for something she wanted and had had to go farther afield than she anticipated. He would chide her playfully when she came back for keeping him waiting and missing the commencement of the concert. Nine o'clock boomed from the Tron.

Somehow or other the sound of the bell as it struck the hour begot in him the first symptoms of alarm. It emphasised the remarkable fact that his bride of a few days was three-quarters of an hour late for the concert—they ought to have left the hotel at a quarter-past eight. So he hurried downstairs and made inquiries. The head waiter knew nothing, and another waiter to whom he addressed himself knew nothing. He therefore appealed to the young lady bookkeeper in the office in the entrance hall.

'Have you seen my wife, Miss?'

'No.'

'You don't know if she's gone out?'

'No, I don't. But Archie, the hall porter, brought a note to me addressed to her, and I sent it up to her room by James, the waiter.'

This item of information literally astounded Gyde. Who could possibly have sent a note to his wife? The hall porter was appealed to. A youth came into the hall and inquired if Mrs. Gyde was staying there, and he handed a note to the porter, with a request that it be delivered immediately to Mrs. Gyde. The porter took the note to the bookkeeper; the bookkeeper sent it upstairs to Room 47—Mrs. Gyde's room—by James, the waiter. A short time afterwards the lady came downstairs in a great hurry. She'd her hat and cloak on, and went out, so said the porter.

Mr. Gyde was more deeply puzzled, and his alarm grew. What could it possibly mean? Neither he nor his wife had | | 61 ever been to Edinburgh before, and they knew nobody in the place—that is, no one in the least likely to send a note by hand to his wife, the contents of which had evidently caused her to leave the hotel hurriedly. The circumstance was mystifying and disquieting. The poor fellow went out into Princes Street, and walked a little way in one direction, then turned back and went in the opposite direction, hoping all the time, of course, that he would meet his wife, but he didn't.

Once again the brazen bell of the Tron gave tongue, and announced that half of the tenth hour had expired.

Half-past nine!

Gyde literally ran back to the hotel. Had Mrs. Gyde come in? The hall porter hadn't seen her. The anxious husband rushed upstairs to his room. There still lay his wife's fan, opera-glasses, scent-bottle, &c., on the dressing-table. The mystery was more mysterious. The poor fellow was at his wit's end what to do, until a fearful thought that something tragic had happened came over him, and ten minutes later he was at the head Police Office telling of his woe and beseeching that information be circulated all over the city, without a moment's loss of time, that the lady was missing.

Ten, half-past, eleven, and then midnight chimed, but there was never a sign of his wife's return. Gyde passed a night of maddening suspense. What he suffered cannot be adequately described by mere words. He spent those awful laggard hours in going backwards and forwards between the hotel and the police station. With the urbanity for which the Edinburgh police are noted, they did all they could to calm the distracted husband. One of their detectives who had earned a reputation for cleverness exerted himself to the uttermost, but failed to get any trace of the missing young lady.

It was June, and the dawn of the summer morning found Gyde blear-eyed, haggard, and forlorn. He had quite exhausted his brain in trying to work out some plausible theory to account for his young wife's mysterious | | 62 disappearance. But the more he struggled with the problem the more puzzled he became. That she had not premeditated flight seemed evident on the face of it, by the fact that her jewellery, which was of some value—in fact, everything except what she stood upright in—she had left behind. Therefore, if her flight had been planned, she had displayed a vast amount of artful cunning to throw him off the scent. But when an unworthy thought tried to fasten upon poor Gyde, he freed himself from it. He would not, could not, think anything unworthy of the dear little woman who, but a few days previously, had linked her destiny with his.

Suddenly it occurred to him to telegraph to Tyler Tatlock. He was not unacquainted with him, having in his capacity as a journalist met him on several occasions. He knew Tatlock to be very clever, though he was not gifted with the all but supernatural powers which the public were inclined to ascribe to him. But Tatlock had over and over again succeeded where many men of vaunted ability had failed. So the sorrowing husband wired to him; a very urgent message it was, and it chanced that when he got it Tatlock was enabled so to arrange his affairs that he left that very night for the north.

When the two men met, Tatlock listened patiently, as was his wont, to the story as told by Gyde. For a moment, truly it was not more than a moment, Tatlock deemed it probable there was another lover in the case. But he dismissed that thought as soon as born. A rapid mental survey of the facts as recorded served to convince him that the young woman had not gone away as a consenting party. He arrived at this conclusion probably more by some subtle, indescribable instinct, than by any process of reasoning. And yet, of course, he did reason. Equally of course, it was indispensable to his task that he should make numerous inquiries about Margaret's acquaintances and position before her marriage. And on this point Gyde afforded all the information he possibly could.

Two very trying and torturing days to Gyde passed, and | | 63 then Tatlock advised him to return to London. As may be supposed the young man was very averse to do that. He was crushed and broken, but he preferred to linger in the place where he had spent the early hours of his married life. He was argued out of this idea, however, by Tatlock, who said—

'Here you are lonely and desolate. In London you will be amongst your friends. They can give you the consolation that strangers cannot do. Besides, your wife is not in Edinburgh.'

'What! Not in Edinburgh?'

'No.'

'How do you know that?'

'I guess it.'

'Then can you not guess where she is?'

'Not at present. But take my advice. Go south. Wait patiently. Be hopeful; trust in Providence.'

Gyde recognised the futility of questioning Tatlock at that stage. He was like the Sphinx—solemn, imperturbable, mysterious when occasion required; and no amount of questioning would make him speak if he felt that he had nothing to say. So Gyde wisely refrained from seeking to draw him ; and with heavy heart and oppressed spirits he turned his back on beautiful Edinburgh, feeling in so doing as if he were leaving all that held him to life, and that hence-forth he must plod on his way, dragging for ever with him the corpse of his dead hopes.

Amongst his own relatives he found that curiosity was more conspicuous than sympathy. His brother John said some very unkind things to members of the family about Margaret, things in which there was only a half-concealed suggestion that the pretty but fickle Margaret had repented of her marriage, and had thrown herself into the arms of some old lover. This, coming to Gilbert's ears, rendered him furious, and seeking out John he threatened him with personal chastisement—a threat that doubtless would have taken practical shape but for the interference of other members of the family.

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Gyde had been back in London a week when Tyler Tatlock called upon him at his chambers.

'What news?' cried the young man with a nervous, feverish anxiety.

'None at present.'

Gyde's heart turned cold again.

'Is there no hope, then, of solving this mystery?' he asked in faltering accents.

'Oh, I don't take such a pessimistic view of the case as that. We shall probably recover your wife shortly. But now I want you to write a letter to my dictation. Don't ask me any questions, don't seek to know to whom you are writing, but do exactly as I desire you to do.'

Gyde had far too strong a faith in Tatlock to set him-self in opposition to him, and in a few minutes he had penned, from Tatlock's dictation, the following note:

Gyde signed this brief epistle, and handed it to the detective, who put it in an envelope, sealed it up, and told Gyde to address it to—

As may be supposed, Gyde's curiosity was aroused to such an extent that he found it very hard to refrain from plying the detective with questions. But he did refrain, for he had given his promise to do so; moreover, he was sure that Tatlock had got a clue, and it was better to let him go to work in his own way.

On the following Wednesday Tatlock turned up again, and instructed Gyde to proceed to a sailors' slop-shop situated in Ratcliffe Highway, and kept by a Chinaman named Woong Sing. He was to enter the shop at seven o'clock precisely, and say to the Chinaman: 'Keys.'

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The Chinaman would answer—'Locks.'

The Chinaman would then lead him to a room, where he would very likely meet another man. What would happen then Tatlock did not pretend to know, but every-thing was to be left in his hands. It was all mystifying and strange, but Gyde consented to be thus led, blindfolded as it were, feeling sure that his guide knew what he was about.

'By the way,' said Tatlock, as he was about to take his departure, 'can you fire a pistol?'

'Yes. I think so.'

'Then take this. And for God's sake be careful, for it's loaded. And, mark you, as you value your life conceal the weapon about your person, and under no circumstances produce it unless it be to defend your own life.'

The situation was now thrilling, in addition to being mysterious, but Gyde resolved to play the part sketched out for him to the letter.

Woong Sing's slop-shop was one of many to be found in the unsavoury neighbourhood where Jack Tars fall an easy prey to the land-sharks that swarm there, ever on the look-out for them. It was a stuffy, little, dirty den, the stock-in-trade being oilskins, sou'westers, sea-boots, jack-knives, flannel shirts, and the like. A tall, yellow-skinned, blear-eyed Mongolian stood behind the little counter. It was Woong Sing. To him entered Gilbert Gyde as a neighbouring church clock was striking seven.

'Keys,' said Gyde.

'Locks,' answered the Chinaman, who, motioning his visitor to follow him, led the way up a narrow, dark stair-way, every board of which creaked dreadfully when trodden on, as if in pain. A second flight, no less narrow and no less dark and creaky, was ascended, and Gyde found himself in a small, low-ceilinged, foul-smelling room. Such furniture as there was seemed tumbling to pieces. Without speaking a word the Chinaman, having shown his visitor in, departed. In the centre of the room was a small table with a petroleum lamp burning on it. There was a | | 66 mouldering couch at one end; a tiny bedstead covered with a filthy counterpane stood in a recess; a few rickety chairs, and a cheap wardrobe that was falling to pieces, completed the furniture.

Wondering what the next act would be in this funny and mysterious little drama, Gyde waited, almost in breath-less expectancy, with his hand in his coat-pocket, clasping the pistol. Presently the door opened, and a dissipated, hard-featured, seedy-looking individual entered. He scrutinised Gyde very closely, who scrutinised him in turn.

Have you brought the money?' asked the seedy one abruptly, in a raspy, rusty voice in keeping with his appearance.

'What money?' asked Gyde, getting more and more mystified.

'What money!' echoed the blear-eyed man. 'Do you mean to say?'

Before he could finish the sentence a third actor appeared on the scene in the person of Tyler Tatlock. The man started, and his blotchy face grew pale. Looking rapidly from Tatlock to Gyde, he asked, addressing the latter:

'What does this mean?'

'It means that you are trapped like a rat, my fine fellow,' answered Gyde. The man drew a revolver quickly. Whether he really meant to use it or not, or he merely intended it as a menace, it is difficult to say, for Tatlock with wonderful agility knocked the weapon out of his hand, and as it fell on the floor he put his foot on it, and said:

'Don't try any tricks, my man, or you'll repent it. Mr. Gyde, have you got a pistol?' Gyde produced his weapon. 'Cover this rascal, please.' Tatlock then stooped and picked up the revolver, glanced at the chambers, and saw they were loaded. 'Now then, my beauty,' he continued, addressing the man, 'you will fully realise that you are trapped. My name is Tyler Tatlock. Perhaps you have heard of me! Ah! your face tells a tale. I am not unknown to you, evidently. Now, then, it may tell in your favour—for, | | 67 unless I am mistaken, you are only a tool—if you are frank, and answer my questions quickly. What is your name?'

The man looked distressed and unhappy. There wasn't much of the lion at bay about him; he was rather suggestive of a whipped hound whose one yearning desire was to sneak off; but though Tatlock was small of stature, his determined air and fiery eyes told too surely that he was not a man to be trifled with. Besides, there was Gyde with a pistol in his hand also.

'My name is Jerry Worboys,' answered the man.

'And what's your occupation, Mr. Worboys?'

'I've been a coachman in a gentleman's family.'

'The third question. Where is Mrs. Gyde?'

Jerry Worboys hesitated, but a glance at Tatlock was sufficient to make him hesitate no longer.

'She's at her father's house,' growled Jerry.

Gyde fairly staggered, and Tatlock could not suppress his surprise.

'Then you are in league with her father?' suggested Tatlock.

Worboys admitted that he was, and began to whine for mercy. Gyde positively felt faint and ill as he now realised that his own father-in-law was at the bottom of the business. Tatlock opened the door, went to the top of the stairs, and bawled out, 'Woong Sing, Woong Sing.' The Chinaman came upstairs in response to the call. 'Have you a key to this room?' he asked.

'Yes, me have key.'

Then lock this man in. And look here, my Chinese friend, I hold you responsible for him. I am Tyler Tatlock, the detective, and if you let him escape I will ruin you. You understand.'

'Me welly understand. Me no wantee be ruined. Me keepee him all welly secure.'

'How long am I to remain here?' asked Worboys in alarm.

'Until I choose to release you.'

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'Woong Sing turned the key in the door, and handed it to Tatlock. They all went downstairs, and Tatlock and Gyde into the street. Both were glad to get out of the evil-smelling den.

'This is a pitiable business,' said Tatlock, 'and, presumably, if you recover your wife, you would prefer to hush the matter up to avoid publicity and scandal.'

'It is a terrible business,' gasped Gyde, mopping his forehead. 'And as my father-in-law seems to be a prime mover in it, there must be no publicity if it can be avoided. But how did you solve the mystery?'

In the fireplace of the bedroom you occupied in Edinburgh I found an envelope addressed to your wife. It was evidently the envelope that had contained the note which had induced her to go out on the night she disappeared. A day or two after you left Edinburgh a letter was delivered at the Balmoral for you by a messenger. I heard of this, and asked the people to let me see the letter. The superscription was the same as the handwriting on the envelope addressed to your wife. I took the liberty of opening the letter. It bore no address, no date, no signature. The writer said he could restore your wife to you, but would only do so on condition that you paid five hundred pounds, which, he suggested, under the circumstances, you could get from your father. In the event of your consenting to do that, the meeting between you and the anonymous writer was to take place at Woong Sing's shop. Your answer was to be addressed to "Peter," 34, Edgware Road. You were also particularly requested to note that when you entered the Chinaman's shop you were to say "Keys" and he would answer "Locks." My first move was to go to Ratcliffe Highway and learn something about Woong Sing. I found he had kept his shop for about ten years. I interviewed him, but he vowed and declared he knew nothing about "Peter." A man whom he had never seen before went there and made arrangements for the meeting. Woong Sing was told that on Wednesday night, precisely at seven o'clock, a stranger would enter, say "Keys," to which | | 69 Woong was to reply "Locks," then show his visitor upstairs. For this service he was to receive five pounds.

Gyde hurried to Mr. Farnell's house, accompanied by Tatlock, and it was soon disclosed that the missing bride was imprisoned there. Being in desperate straits for money, Farnell had resorted to this extraordinary and dastardly crime to obtain some, believing that Gyde's father would advance the sum demanded. His confederate was a fellow named Peter Johnston, who years before had been a coachman in Farnell's employ. Peter kept a public-house in Chelsea, which was a great resort for betting-men. Farnell frequented the house and kept in touch with the ex-coachman. When he conceived the dastardly scheme of abducting his own daughter, Farnell took Peter into his confidence, knowing that he, too, was pressed for money. Peter had a brother who kept a little grocery shop in Ratcliffe Highway, two or three doors from Woong Sing, and through the brother he became acquainted with the Chinaman. Mrs. Gyde had been lured from the hotel by a very artful trick. Her father went down to Edinburgh and penned the, following note:—

This note, though it distressed Margaret and put her into a flutter, fulfilled its purpose, for nothing her father did surprised her, and so, without waiting to think, she threw on her hat and cloak and hurried out. When she met her | | 70 father he appeared to her to be suffering from such mental excitement that he was half mad, and, yielding to his pressing solicitations, she accompanied him to the Waverley Station. They went into the waiting-room, where he had some brandy and water, and she drank a bottle of lemonade. There is no doubt her wretched parent drugged this lemonade, for she remembered very little afterwards until she found herself lying on the seat of a first-class railway carriage, and her father was seated opposite her. When she had recollected her scattered senses, she demanded to know what it all meant. Farnell told her he was taking her to London, and, producing a revolver, he threatened to kill her and himself if she betrayed him. Fairly believing that he had gone mad, she was horrified into silence and a compliance with his wishes.

Arrived at Euston, he compelled her to get into a cab with him, and he took her home and actually imprisoned her in one of the bedrooms. The suffering she endured may be far better imagined than described. In their happy reunion, however, husband and wife forgot their woes, and it was decided to take no action against either Farnell or his accomplice. A few weeks later Farnell did really show signs of mental aberration, and it ultimately became necessary to confine him in an asylum, where he died in the course of the year.