# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 1

BOOK THE FIRST
The Murder at Princes Gate
CHAPTER I
LOVERS
Of all the open spaces with which London has so generously provided her people, there is no single one which compares with Kensington Gardens for a certain charm which seems peculiar to it. True enough, this stretch of ground has no undulations, no mimic hills, no miniature valleys; it possesses no stream or river, real or artificial, and its pond, however useful to the owners of model yachts and to small owners of smaller craft, is not a thing of beauty. Also there are no particular views in Kensington Gardens, always excepting the artificially contrived view from the Palace windows, which gives you the impression of being in the midst of a large park, and conveys a sense of noble expanse. But the charm of the place is neither in views nor scenery; it is rather in the presence of many trees, of delightful shadiness, and of great quiet.
No one ever sees Kensington Gardens crowded. Its tea-house stands away in a corner, and there is no accommodation for riding your own or ​other people's horses. It is a great place for nursemaids, babies, and old ladies who bring out fat pugs and poodles for a much-needed constitutional; a great place, too, for quiet people who wish to meditate or to read; a great place for young gentlemen with long hair and young ladies in æsthetic frocks who wish to commune with Nature while composing a sonnet or a rondeau. And it is also a convenient place for lovers who wish to have a little quiet conversation with each other.
There was one such lover, waiting impatiently near the Lancaster Gate entrance one fine June morning, who wished that the gardens, quiet as they were just then, were even less public and more shady—that they were, in fact, a quiet and umbrageous valley in the midst of mountains, where there was absolute solitude. When you are but five-and-twenty, and terribly in love, and have become engaged to the object of your love, and the engagement has only just taken place—in fact, only a few hours ago—you naturally wish to lead her to quiet retreats; in short, to have her all to yourself. This was exactly the state in which Mr. John Dalrymple Lauderdale, who held His Majesty's commission and was a lieutenant in the 42nd Lancers, and a young gentleman of very ardent temperament and high spirits, found himself on this particular morning.
He had been in love with Millicent Oxenham, Sir Nicholas Oxenham's daughter, ever since ​she was a girl of fifteen, and he at Wellington. In his holidays they had fished together, played all manner of games together, sometimes quarrelled and always made it up on the instant. Then, of course, there had been no talk of love; they were comrades and healthy young animals. But when Lauderdale entered the Army he was almost immediately packed off, first to Gibraltar, and then to Malta, and subsequently to Egypt, and there had been a blank of nearly four years during which they never saw each other. Then Lauderdale came home and found a beautiful young woman where he had left a still-growing girl, and they had looked at each other—and it was all over.
And, last night, at Lady Tremlingham's ball, he had asked Millicent to marry him, and she had told him that she had never dreamt of marrying anybody else. And now Lieutenant Lauderdale felt as if he were intoxicated with the finest ether.
How many times he pulled out his watch as he waited about the entrance to the gardens Lauderdale did not know, but he knew very well that, like all lovers, he had come too early to his appointment, and that his lady-love would not be late.
"Of course she'll be punctual," he said to himself. "Millie always was punctual. She always keeps a promise."
Then he caught sight of her coming along the walk just within the Park, and hurried to meet ​her. A minute later and they were strolling side by side across the grass under the trees, and a couple of nursemaids, whose charges were sound asleep, sighed involuntarily.
"Ah, it's easy to see they're pretty badly smitten with each other!" said one. "Lor', ain't it good to tell—see him look at her, same as if he could eat her?"
"They're a fine-lookin' couple," said the other dreamily. "Looks like them lords and ladies what you read of in the story-papers. But you never can tell."
The objects of these remarks walked slowly away beneath the trees towards the quietest part of the gardens. Like all lovers, at this very early age of an engagement they talked little, and then only in the barest commonplaces, for there is nothing so tongue-tying as love just revealed and answered. And when they came to a quiet place beneath a tree, and sat down on two chairs conveniently placed there, they did not talk at first, but, for some reason or other, took a long look at each other's faces.
Millicent was the first to break the silence. She laughed softly.
"Why do you stare at me so—Jack?" she said.
"Stare! That wasn't staring, Millie. That was—making up for lost time. Remember, until three weeks ago, I hadn't seen you for four long years."
​"I sent you my photograph—twice," she said.
"I know. But photographs haven't any colouring, and what's worse, they've no power of suggesting any," said Lauderdale sententiously. "And your colouring's your great beauty. I never thought you'd turn out such a beauty, Millie. Don't you remember what a—well, yes, what a gawky young party you were, when you used to climb trees and do all sorts of unladylike things? You were all legs and arms, and your hair was—carroty!"
Millicent laughed. Without being wrongly proud of the fact, she knew that she was beautiful, that her figure was as perfect as her complexion, that her eyes had the true violet tint, and that her luxuriant hair, about which Lauderdale had often teased her when they were boy and girl comrades, was of that wonderful golden-red which artists dream of and rarely find in life. And she was womanly enough to be glad of her beauty for her lover's sake.
"You weren't a good-looking boy, Jack," she said. "Your mouth was too big, and you used to have such lots of freckles, and such big hands, and you were always tearing your clothes. And now . . . "
She paused and looked at him dreamily through half-closed lids.
"Well?" said Lauderdale smiling. "Are you sizing me up?"
"I think you're a very handsome man," she ​said simply. "Very! Mrs. Hamilton said so last night. I—I felt—proud."
Lauderdale laughed and laid a very brown and masterful-looking hand on the girl's wrist.
"We must always be proud of each other," he said. "Dearest—am I to speak to your father tonight? And did you speak to your mother?"
Millicent nodded her head. At the mention of her mother a slight look of pain crossed her face and her eyes grew sad.
"Yes," she said. "I told her this morning. She was very glad, dear, as I knew she would be. But, Jack, I hope we shall never have to be far away from her, that you won't want me to go abroad, to India or anywhere, because I'm sure, from the hints that Dr. Ingram gives us guardedly, that she may never be able to leave her room again."
"I don't think there's any fear of that, dear," said Lauderdale. "You see, we're only just home after twenty-one years' foreign service, so there'll be a long spell here. You shall not be out of touch with her."
Millie pressed his hand.
"Thank you, Jack," she said. "That's what I do wish—while she lives. It's dreadful for her to be a confirmed invalid, as she has been now for three years, unable to leave her room, and she's dependent so much on me for company. But as to your speaking to Father—yes, I think you might do so tonight, because, so far as I know, no ​one but yourself is coming to dine. Of course he may ask someone during the day—he often does, and telephones at the last moment to say so. Mr. Bartenstein, for example, often comes with him."
Lauderdale frowned.
"That chap!" he said. "I can't stand him, Millie."
"I loathe him," said Millie. "I even detest him! But he and Father are such close friends that I have to be civil to him. However, I don't expect him tonight, because he was there last night. So, if there is no one there but you, Jack, you might speak to Father after dinner."
"Yes," said Lauderdale. "That's what I meant to do."
"The only thing," said Millie thoughtfully, "the only thing is———"
She paused and tapped the ground with the point of her shoe.
"What are you thinking of?" asked Lauderdale.
"I was going to say that you had better see if he is in—not exactly a good temper, but in a fitting mood," she replied. "Lately I have been a little troubled about him. When he has come home from the City he has seemed worried, and now and then he has been rather irritable, and in the evening, instead of his old methods of spending it, he shuts himself up in his study and seems to be working at figures."
"Doing some big deal, very likely," said ​Lauderdale. "Those big financial chaps are like that sometimes, I believe. However, I'll look for my opportunity. I don't see what objection he can have, dear. I'm pretty well off in this world's goods; I've a clean record, and certainly no dark spots to cover up, and no debts; and I shall have the baronetcy when Uncle Dick goes—I'm an eligible parti, I think."
Millie laughed and pressed his hand again.
"Quite!" she said. "I don't think my father will have the least objection, Jack—it's only that lately, if one wants to ask him anything, or consult him in any way, one has had to choose one's time with some care. I—I have been wondering if———"
"Yes?" said Lauderdale, as she paused. "If what, dear?"
"If he was in any financial trouble," she answered. "Twice lately he has scarcely touched any dinner, and his appetite at breakfast is certainly not good."
"Oh, it may be as I said, that he's doing a big deal with some of the foreign governments, said Lauderdale. "When you're dealing with millions, as Sir Nicholas does, why, you naturally feel a bit hipped."
"But he has always been dealing with millions and things ever since I remember," said Millie, "and he was always so jolly and good-tempered until recently. I confess," she added, after a pause, "I confess, Jack, I have been rather bothered about him. Lately, too, Mr. ​Bartenstein has always been at the house, and he and Father have sat in the study for hours at night, apparently doing business. And—I don't like Mr. Bartenstein."
"I should think not—rather!" exclaimed Lauderdale. "He makes me think of—of a fried-fish shop!"
Millie laughed.
"Never mind," she said. "Let's talk of something else."
There was nobody near at hand to eavesdrop, and for some time Lieutenant Lauderdale and Miss Oxenham continued to play the parts of whispering lovers 'neath the shade, with the result that, when they rose, each looked well satisfied with the morning's tête-à-tête.
Lauderdale walked back with Millie to Sir Nicholas Oxenham's house in Sussex Square, and left her there with a promise to come that evening half an hour before dinner. He went away with a light heart.
The girl's heart was light too as she ran up the steps. Nor did anything warn her of any coming evil as the old butler admitted her.
"What a glorious morning, Basset, isn't it?" she said cheerily. "Glorious!"
"A splendid day, miss," answered the old man. He paused a minute to lower his voice. "There's Mr. Bartenstein here, miss, in the library—to see you, miss."