# The Man Whom Nobody Liked

From Windsor Magazine, Vol 19, 1903-04
THE MAN WHOM NOBODY LIKED.
By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
HE came into their midst unexpectedly, apparently unconscious of the sudden silence which seemed designed to act as a barrier between him and them. He only smiled—a little malevolently, it is true, but still with some sense of humour. He dragged a chair across the lawn and seated himself in a cool place within a yard or so of his hostess.
"How very enterprising of you, Mr. Lyndham!" she murmured, lifting her parasol a little on one side, and inwardly rebelling against her husband's express instructions to be always civil to this man. "Have you walked all the way from Broom Hill in this sun?"
He assented, but without speech. His gesture was of the slightest. Really his manners were worse than brusque. Mrs. Poynton languidly ordered some fresh tea and turned her shoulder upon the new-comer. He had come without invitation upon an afternoon of some importance—he should entertain himself. There were limits to her tolerance, obedient wife though she was.
So the conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Everyone followed their hostess's lead and made no attempt to draw him into it. Yet never was a casual visitor so little upset by the subtle but unmistakable rudeness of being ignored. He drank his tea absently, and notwithstanding his isolation, he made no movement to depart.
"My dear Eleanor," Lady Martyn whispered to her hostess, "what an extraordinary man! Is he a specimen of your country neighbours? I thought the people were quite decent round here."
Mrs. Poynton gently elevated her shoulders.
"Heaven only knows who or what he is!" she murmured. "We none of us like him except my husband, and you know how anything unusual attracts him."
"But where does he come from? Is he a neighbour?"
"His name is Lyndham, and he has taken a cottage a few miles away. No one seems to have an idea who or what he is, and he is most uncommunicative. He seems to spend most of his time walking in the grounds here and staring up at the house."
"A gentleman—but how uncouth!" Lady Martyn declared under her breath.
Mrs. Poynton looked sideways at him through the lace which drooped from her parasol. There was disparagement, but a certain amount of curiosity in her stealthy gaze. Mr. Lyndham wore old clothes, his beard was ill-trimmed, his necktie a subterfuge. But, after all, perhaps Lady Martyn was right. There was a certain air of breeding about the man, and his voice had the unmistakable quality which attracts. She lowered her parasol again.
"Why he comes here," she said softly—"especially whilst my husband is away—I cannot imagine. No one is civil to him, and he very seldom speaks to anybody. He asked Arthur for permission to walk in the grounds, and since then he seems to haunt the place. I met him one evening striding along the avenue and muttering to himself. I must have passed within a yard of him, and he took not the slightest notice. I was almost frightened to death."
"Your husband was always so good-natured," Lady Martyn yawned. "By the by, how about the lease?"
"Arthur has gone up to see the solicitors," Mrs. Poynton answered. "They do not seem to be able to get any reply from Sir Gervase. I don't think they even know where he is, and they have no power of attorney."
Lady Martyn looked across the terraced lawn to the long, ivy-covered front of the house.
"I hope you do not lose it," she said. "There isn't another place like it in the county. Isn't it almost time she came?"
Mrs. Poynton leaned forward in her chair. "I believe," she said, "that I can hear the carriage."
From where they sat, the lower of three terraced lawns, cool with the quivering shade of dark cedar trees, one could see the long approach to the Abbey, a mile of straight white road leading through a parklike expanse of meadowland, yellow always at this time of the year with buttercups and clumps of marigolds. Mrs. Poynton rose to her feet, and there was as much excitement in her manner as a well-bred woman permits herself to entertain.
"The Princess is coming," she announced.
Only her unwelcome visitor sat still. Everyone else stood up to catch a glimpse of the victoria, now plainly visible. Mrs. Poynton glanced at this man, whom nobody liked, almost with aversion. He represented the one alien note in the little party of immaculately flannelled men, and women in all the glory of muslin gowns and flower-garlanded hats. He ought to have the good sense to go before the arrival of the Princess. He must understand that his appearance and strange humours were in ill accord with a gathering such as this. But Mr. Lyndham did not move. His arms were folded, his eyes were fixed on vacancy. He seemed to have passed into a world of his own creation—obviously a very rude thing to do. Apparently he was not even contemplating an early departure.
He had manners enough to rise, however, when the Princess, seeing them all gathered under the cedar-tree, stopped the carriage and came smiling across the lawn to them. A trifle grave-eyed, perhaps, and a little weary, she still justified easily the extravagant praises of a too personal Press. In her white lace dress and parasol, without a vestige of colour, her pallor seemed to speak of a fatigue not wholly physical. Yet it was impossible to deny her beauty.
In the midst of a little buzz of introductions, she found herself suddenly face to face with Lyndham, whom Mrs. Poynton had no idea at all of mentioning. In those few seconds of breathless silence which intervened before she held out her hand, there flashed backwards and forwards between the two, nameless things. She, if possible, was a little paler, and her admirable self-possession faltered. He, too, seemed to be struggling for self-control.
"I may be permitted to recall myself to your memory, Princess," he said, looking at her steadily. "My name is Lyndham—Richard Lyndham. May I hope that I am not quite forgotten?"
She held out her hand.
"One does not forget one's oldest friends," she said softly. "I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Lyndham."
Her hostess led her away. The Princess of Berlitz was a personage, even if her husband's estates had lain far away in a corner of Austria; and the suite of rooms into which Mrs. Poynton herself conducted her had once been occupied by royalty. Tea and fruit were ready on a tiny table in the sitting-room. Beyond in the bedroom a couple of maids were already busy unpacking. Mrs. Poynton looked around, and the stream of idle words which had been passing between the two stopped.
"I wonder," she said, "if there is anything else I can do for you?"
The Princess hesitated.
"Yes," she said, "there is something else. I should be so glad if I could speak for a few minutes with Mr. Lyndham up here."
Mrs. Poynton was taken aback. She stared blankly at her guest.
"With Mr. Lyndham?" she repeated vaguely.
The Princess bowed.
"Yes."
Mrs. Poynton recovered herself, though she was still steeped in amazement.
"By all means," she said slowly. "I will send him up to you."
Mrs. Poynton returned to the garden. Mr. Lyndham was still there, sitting a little apart from the others. She went up to him.
"Mr. Lyndham," she said, and unconsciously her voice took a new tone in addressing him, "the Princess desires to speak to you in her room. If you will come this way, I will show you where she is."
Mr. Lyndham rose slowly to his feet. He did not appear surprised, but he showed no signs of eagerness.
"I will follow you," he said.
The door was safely closed. They were face to face. The Princess was in unfamiliar guise. Her eyes were full of tears, her voice, as she stood there with outstretched hand, shook.
"Gervase!" she exclaimed, "at last I have found you, then! You cannot escape me now. Come!"
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. He was almost unrecognisable. All the hardness seemed to have passed from his strong, weather-tanned face. His eyes and voice were as soft as a child's.
"Dear Gabrielle!" he murmured. "You believe still? You have not lost your faith?"
"Never! Never for one moment!"
"Thank God! Even though it be you against the world."
They were silent for several moments. There was so much between them which seemed better expressed unspoken.
"You keep still—your borrowed name?"
"I have no other," he answered.
"Yet you are back in England—here, of all places in the world."
"And in this room," he added, with a dash of his old cynicism. "Nothing is stranger than that!"
She started away and looked around. Her dark eyes were full of the shadows of some reawakened fear.
"It is true! " she declared. "The whole place is altered and modernised out of recognition. I did not realise where I was."
He moved to the window.
"It was from here," he said, "that the shot was fired; and there were a dozen people ready to testify that no one save myself passed out from this room."
She held out her hand.
"Gervase!" she exclaimed suddenly, "you are here with an object!"
"And you?"
"Also with an object. Tell me, you received a letter?"
"I did! It brought me from Alaska."
"And me," she declared, "from Austria. Look!"
He glanced at it.
"The same as mine," he declared. "Heaven knows, it seems improbable enough! but dying men sometimes tell you truth."
He was busy already at the wall. With his knife he gashed recklessly at the new and expensive lincrusta walton. For several minutes he pushed and strained and knocked. At last with a little cry he succeeded. A hidden door swung back a few inches. With the poker for a lever he forced it open. The Princess looked over his shoulder eagerly. It was a mere closet of an apartment, dark and empty, save for a single shelf.
"After all," he said despondently, "there is nothing here to help us."
"But do you not see," she exclaimed, "one part of the mystery vanishes from this moment? This is where the man hid who fired the shot!"
He nodded.
"I was an idiot not to have thought of the place before," he said, "but I was told that it had been blocked up whilst I was at school. You are right. One part of the mystery vanishes. But the other remains."
She pointed to something upon the floor.
"What is that?" she asked. "A book?"
He stooped and picked it up—a dingy, faded volume, with the word "Diary" stamped upon it on the outer cover, the sort of thing which was the weakness of the last generation of schoolgirls. It was thick with dust and yellow with age. He opened it carelessly at the last page and bent forward to catch the light. Then he gave a little cry.
"What is it, Gervase?"
"Heaven only knows!" he muttered, and the hand which clutched the book shook as though an ague had seized him. "Read, Gabrielle! I cannot!"
She snatched it from him. Followed by him, she carried it out into the light.
The man whom nobody liked, the man who was Mrs. Poynton's bête noire, remained alone with the Princess in her sitting-room for nearly an hour. Meanwhile Mrs. Poynton and her guests talked. The more tolerant assumed an old friendship; others smiled. The Princess was of ancient family, but in the days before her fortunate marriage she had been poor. It was rumoured that she had been a governess. Who could tell what entanglements she might not have formed at that time? The Prince, who had been dead for little more than a year, had left her a wealthy woman. Her place in Society seemed assured. It was supposed that she was ambitious. She was indeed a splendid victim for the intelligent blackmailer. Mrs. Poynton grew weary of explaining how little she knew of Mr. Lyndham. He had come from nobody knew where. Arthur had taken a fancy to him, it was true, but she herself had mistrusted him from the first. Then there was a sudden hush. The Princess and Mr. Lyndham were coming down the steps and across the lawn.
"Dear Mrs. Poynton," the Princess murmured, as she joined them, "my rooms are perfect. But one of them, I think, has a history. Is it true that Sir Knowles Philton was shot from the window of my sitting-room?"
Mrs. Poynton was a little perturbed.
"I am afraid that it is true," she admitted. "It is many years ago, however, and I thought that everyone would have forgotten. I hope you are not afraid of ghosts."
The Princess smiled brilliantly.
"Already," she confessed, "I have seen one."
There was a little murmur of amusement. Then everyone suddenly realised that she was in earnest. She had something to say to them.
"I want you to tell me something about that murder, Mrs. Poynton," the Princess said. "Sir Knowles was shot as he walked upon the terrace, was he not, by some unseen person? Was the mystery ever cleared up?"
Mrs. Poynton shook her head.
"Never positively," she answered. "Never in the courts, that is to say. Of course, all the evidence pointed to Gervase Philton, Knowles's brother; and although they never arrested him, he had to leave the country."
"Was there any quarrel between them?" the Princess asked.
"No open quarrel," Mrs. Poynton answered, "but it came out afterwards that there had been a great deal of ill-feeling for some time. Very fortunately for Gervase, no word of this transpired at the inquest."
"Dear me," the Princess murmured. "And the cause of the ill-feeling—was that ever known?"
Mrs. Poynton shrugged her shoulders.
"The one eternal cause. She was a governess to Lady Morrey's children—Lady Morrey was their sister, you know, and she was living here whilst her husband completed his term in India. They say that both brothers were in love with her, and Gervase was supposed to be horribly jealous."
There flashed between the Princess and Mr. Lyndham an illuminative glance which was a source of wonder to Mrs. Poynton.
"Anyhow," Mrs. Poynton continued, "one night Sir Knowles was shot as he walked upon the terrace, and the shot was fired from his brother's window. Some workmen were taking down a picture on the landing just outside, and they saw no one but Gervase himself come out of or enter his room. So, you see, as far as the negative evidence went, it was fairly conclusive. Gervase remained in England for several months; then he went abroad, and no one has ever heard of him since. We took the place a few months afterwards, and for my own part I can't help saying that I hope Sir Gervase never comes back. We could not possibly find another place to suit us so well."
The Princess smiled. Mr. Lyndham, wonderful to relate, followed suit.
"I am afraid that there is a disappointment in store for you, Mrs. Poynton," the Princess said. "Sir Gervase is back in England now. He is sitting by my side."
"Mr. Lyndham!" Mrs. Poynton screamed.
Mr. Lyndham bowed.
"I must apologise for being here under false pretences," he said, "but I had a very particular reason for desiring to pay a visit to this neighbourhood, and you can understand that I did not care to venture here under my own name. Eight years in the Colonies and a beard will do wonders for a man."
"Yet the Princess recognised you," Mrs. Poynton said.
"It is true," he admitted.
"I, too," the Princess remarked, "have an explanation to make. You have heard that I was a governess for two years before I married the Prince of Berlitz; but you perhaps did not know that I was a governess at this house, that it was on my account even that poor Sir Gervase here was accused of shooting his brother, who never spoke more than a civil word to me in his life."
A sudden silence fell upon the little group. After all, the evidence had been very strong. Yet they neither of them looked in the least like guilty people.
"Sir Gervase would rather, perhaps, that I told you what has happened—what we have discovered," the Princess said. "It is very simple, and the mystery which has baffled everyone so long does not exist any longer. Adjoining my sitting-room, from which the shot was fired, is a small secret closet, which apparently has not been opened for years. Some months ago we both of us received anonymous letters, dated from a hospital in Paris, advising us to explore this place. Hence Sir Gervase, hence my broken vow—for I had sworn never to set foot in England again. The closet appealed to us, as a likely hiding-place for the person who had fired the shot, but we have been fortunate to discover far more important things."
"You found something there?" one of the guests exclaimed.
"This," the Princess declared, holding up a little volume. "It is a sort of diary, and it is very eloquent. Is it your pleasure that I read aloud the last two extracts only?"
"This is very extraordinary," Mrs. Poynton murmured. "Yes, please do read anything which will elucidate the matter."
The Princess opened the book.
"This," she said, "appears to be the diary of one Jules Letrange, valet of the late Sir Knowles Philton. The first few pages are merely a highly sentimental and romantic account of his affection for a Mademoiselle de Caliste, which under the circumstances you will not expect me to read. He admits that he has not dared to betray himself in any way, he pleads guilty all the time to a most becoming doubt as to whether his suit would be in any way acceptable. He works his way through all the stages of frenzy, however, to madness, and he is evidently very near that state when this entry was written. You will observe that it was on the day of the murder.
"September 11th.—I cannot bear it any longer! If she is not for me, she is for no one. She favours Monsieur Gervase—a union impossible for her. Me she passes always by. I do not count with her. I am as the dust on which she treads. If she only knew that I have sworn it, perhaps she would not go out then to meet her lover, so blithe, so gay. If she is not for me, she is not for any other man.... If I see her with Monsieur Gervase again, it is the end....
"Heaven help me! I tremble all the time! I am afraid! I have shot the wrong man. I have shot Sir Knowles, my master. I heard him cry out! If only I could get away from here! I hid till it was dark—no one suspects. It is all finished. To-morrow I may go. I leave this book. They speak of Monsieur Gervase. I will hide myself, and send word of this book if they arrest him. I..."
The Princess closed the little volume.
"The anonymous letters we both received were in the same handwriting. On my way through Paris I inquired at the hospital. The man is dead. He left no other confession. He left only this to tell his story."
Mrs. Poynton shut down her parasol with a snap.
"Really, it has been a most exciting afternoon. Only I am very much afraid now that I shall not get my lease renewed."
Sir Gervase and the Princess exchanged smiles. "That depends," he said, "upon the Princess."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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