Computational fluid dynamics the basics with applications 1st Edition by Anderson ISBN 0071132104 9780071132107 pdf download
https://ebookball.com/product/computational-fluid-dynamics-thebasics-with-applications-1st-edition-by-andersonisbn-0071132104-9780071132107-18268/
Explore and download more ebooks or textbooks at ebookball.com
Computational Fluid Dynamics 1st Edition by Naser Sayma ISBN
https://ebookball.com/product/computational-fluid-dynamics-1stedition-by-naser-sayma-isbn-12894/
Computational Fluid Dynamics 2010 1st Edition by Alexander Kuzmin ISBN 3642178847 9783642178849
https://ebookball.com/product/computational-fluiddynamics-2010-1st-edition-by-alexander-kuzminisbn-3642178847-9783642178849-14046/
Computational Methods in Economic Dynamics 1st Edition by Herbert Dawid, Willi Semmler 3642169422 9783642169427
https://ebookball.com/product/computational-methods-in-economicdynamics-1st-edition-by-herbert-dawid-willisemmler-3642169422-9783642169427-9374/
(Eboo PDF) Dynamics of the Vascular System Interaction With the Heart 2nd Edition by John Kj Li 9814723762 9789814723763 full chapters
https://ebookball.com/product/eboo-pdf-dynamics-of-the-vascularsystem-interaction-with-the-heart-2nd-edition-by-john-kjli-9814723762-9789814723763-full-chapters-22482/
smothered his unwillingness, and reached the abode of his relative shortly before eight o'clock.
Lady Sophia lived magnificently in Brummel Square. The fourth daughter of a pauper Duke, she had married a wealthy city man— that is, she had entered into a social partnership, as there was little genuine marital feeling about the union. Simon Haken was a driedup, active atom of humanity with a bald head, a pair of piercing dark eyes, and an exasperating chuckle, which he used when getting the better of anyone. As he usually scored over less clever financiers, he chuckled very often, and this sardonic merriment imparted a somewhat cynical expression to his withered face.
His wife, large, and expansive, and fresh-coloured, looked like an elephant beside a grasshopper, when the two went into Society, and they were generally known as the Mountain and the Mouse. But Haken cared as little for the jest as did Lady Sophia. As husband and wife in its strictest sense they were failures, being two and not one; as partners they were admirably matched. Having no children, and plenty of money and excellent health, and no strong emotions, the two enjoyed life immensely. Possessed of a complacent husband, of a good position, ample cash, and absolute freedom, Lady Sophia even forgot to sigh for the delights of the Stone Age when she reflected upon the position in life to which it had pleased Providence to call her.
On this occasion Mr. Haken, as usual, had wired detention in the city on business, so Lady Sophia received her nephew in a solitary drawing-room, as handsomely furnished as she was dressed. "You are just in time for dinner," said she with emphasis, implying thereby that Prelice was usually late.
"I always am in time," answered the guest, smiling but preoccupied. "Dinner is a sacred feast which cannot be trifled with. I would as soon insult the King as the Cook." Then he sat and stared at the points of his patent-leather boots with the air of a misanthrope.
"You are out of spirits," declared Lady Sophia, rapping his knuckles with her lorgnette. "I prescribe a round of pleasure. To-night you shall escort me to two dances and four musical parties."
"But I haven't done anything to deserve such punishment."
"How absurdly you talk. These festivals——"
"I agree with the man who said that life would be endurable were it not for its festivals."
"Nonsense. He could not have been in Society."
"He just was, and so made a profoundly true observation. I renounce Society and all its play. Besides," added Prelice inconsequently, "I am going to a masked ball to-night at Mrs. Dolly Rover's."
"That woman!" cried Lady Sophia, with disdain.
Prelice looked up, surprised. "I thought you liked her?"
"As Constance Newton, not as Mrs. Rover," she informed him swiftly.
"They are one and the same," he urged.
"Not at all. Marriage changes a woman into something entirely different. Constance was a charming girl; Mrs. Rover is a flirting, fast-living, heartless, spendthrift, Society doll."
"Society Doll—y Rover," murmured Prelice, noting his aunt's usual waste of adjectives. "Will you come to this ball?"
"What!" Lady Sophia almost screamed, "a masked ball, and at my age? Oh, how can you be so ridiculous, Prelice? And at Mrs. Rover's too; a woman who neglects her husband, and squanders his money, and whips him like a poodle, I believe."
"Aunt Sophia, will you tell me plainly if you believe Miss Chent to be innocent or guilty?"
"How can I judge when I haven't heard the evidence? You talk as though I were on the jury. I like Mona, and I'm sure she didn't kill him; but if she did, he deserved it, as he was a nasty old bully."
Prelice desisted in despair, and helped himself to fish. Lady Sophia seemed to change her mind every half minute, and never considered facts when she wanted to deliver an opinion. Besides, she preferred fiction, as it was less trouble to invent than to remember. All the same, her sympathies appeared to be with Mona, and Prelice felt pleased that it should be so. Should the girl be acquitted, her position would be extremely difficult, and she would require a staunch friend of her own sex. Why should not that friend be Lady Sophia, whose support could do much to efface the stain of a Criminal Court? But until the case was decided, Prelice did not dare to hint that such an idea had crossed his mind. As the servants were hovering round the table he could not talk confidentially to his aunt, so drifted into general conversation about mutual friends. He thus became posted up in the latest Mayfair gossip, and so was brought up to date in necessary knowledge. And Lady Sophia knew as much about London as Asmodeus did about Madrid, and like that delightful demon, she could unroof houses to some purpose. Luckily for the men and women about whom she talked, the presence of the butler and two footmen prevented entire candour.
As the food was excellent and the conversation interesting, not to say necessary—for Prelice as a newly returned traveller required much posting-up in recent scandals—nephew and aunt lingered for a considerable time at table. When the meal was ended Prelice preferred to accompany Lady Sophia to the drawing-room, instead of remaining solitary over Haken's famous port. They had half-an-hour left for coffee, and then Lady Sophia would have to start out on her round of festivals.
"You ought to come with me, Prelice," she said later, as he helped her on with her cloak; "everyone thinks that you are dead."
"Well, aunt, you would not have much pleasure in taking a corpse about with you. Besides, I promised to look up Ned this evening."
"No doubt, and he'll be at that woman's ball. Most indecent, seeing that poor Mona is in gaol."
"Ned isn't such a blighter," cried Prelice crossly.
"I never called him a blighter, whatever that may mean," retorted Lady Sophia with great dignity. "Mr. Shepworth is an estimable young man, whom you would do well to imitate."
"I intend to. He and I are going to save Miss Chent."
"How horrid; you'll be a kind of detective."
Prelice nodded. "It's something to do."
"As if you required anything to do with your rank and money."
"But I say, aunt, you advised me this morning——"
"Oh, I never remember anything I say in the morning," said Lady Sophia airily. "You are so stupid, Prelice, you always take one at the foot of the letter. You won't come with me. Oh, very well. Help me into the brougham, you horrid boy. I believe you'll fall in love with Mona, and give me a criminal for a niece."
This was Lady Sophia's parting shot, and when her motor-brougham spun towards the first turning out of the square, Prelice laughed long and loudly. His aunt was nearer the truth than she had been the whole evening, although she was far from suspecting it. It never entered her elderly head that a man of the world, such as her nephew certainly was, would fall in love on the spur of the moment.
Meanwhile the little millionaire was chuckling and masking. "It is a risk, you know, Rover," he observed dryly. "You don't know who is here. Half the swell mobsmen of London may have come after diamonds."
"Oh, dear me, how can you talk so, Haken?" said the host fretfully; "the man below examines the tickets."
"As if anyone could not forge or steal one," retorted Haken, voicing his nephew's thoughts. "Well, in to-morrow's papers I shall look for a criminal scandal." And with his odious chuckle Haken brushed past Prelice towards the ballroom of the left-hand flat.
His lordship, tired of watching new arrivals, thought that he also would go and view the revellers. But he had hardly moved half-adozen paces when he unexpectedly began to think of Easter Island. A sweet, heavy perfume, as of tuberoses, was wafted in his nostrils. But why should such a familiar fragrance recall that desolate land, environed by leagues of ocean?
Odour is one of the strongest aids which memory can have, and a chance whiff of a particular scent will recall to the most lethargic brain, circumstances both trivial and important of long-forgotten years. But the well-known fragrance of the tuberose usually brings funerals to mind, since that flower is so extensively woven into burial
wreaths and mortuary crosses. It was strange indeed that it should conjure into an idle-thinking mind the vision of a heathen festival.
There were many people crowding the corridor, so that it was impossible for the young man to tell who wore the flowers which gave forth the magical scent—for magical it was in its effect. They might adorn a man's button-hole or a woman's bodice. He could not tell, since the evening-dress of both sexes was veiled by voluminous dominos. But as he leaned against the wall, the vision became clearer and more insistent. His body was in London—in Alexander Mansions, at a masked ball, as he well knew—but the scent of the tuberose had drawn his spirit across leagues of trackless sea to the uttermost parts of the earth. The present vanished, and he beheld the past.
Before him, as the interior vision opened, he saw colossal images of a vanished and forgotten race, rudely hewn into the semblance of human beings, each bearing a cylinder—according to Captain Cook's description—on its gigantic head. These reared themselves from vast platforms of Cyclopean architecture, overgrown with tropical vegetation, and strewn with bleaching bones. And in the soft radiance of the southern moon Prelice beheld a kneeling crowd of bronze-hued worshippers, tattooed and painted, adoring the weird stone gods. An old priest, his face and body streaked with white pigment, murmured strange names over a rude stone altar, whereon blazed a clear fire. He invoked terrible deities incarnate in the giant idols—Kanaro! Gotomoara! Marapate! Areekee!—and cast upon the flames the yellow leaves of a sacred herb. A thick white cloud of smoke spread like a milky mist before the statues, veiling their grotesque looks and vast outlines, and the sickly scent of the tuberose grew powerful. Then did the priest become rigid as the dead, and his spirit blended with the spirits of those grim gods he worshipped. Finally, the fragrance which loaded the heavy air— whether of Easter Island or London Prelice could not tell—passed away, and with that odour passed the vision.
"Of course not," replied the young man, puzzled to know why Haken should take the trouble to explain; "but don't mention my name. I also wish to be unknown."
"What are you doing here?" asked Haken abruptly.
"I came to the ball, and also I have to see Ned Shepworth, who——"
"Shepworth," gasped Haken, backing nervously. "Oh yes! friend of our charming hostess; friend of mine also. Is he here?"
"No. He would not come to a ball when his promised wife is in prison."
"Of course not; very creditable of him, to be sure," muttered Haken, and took another glass of wine with a whispered apology. "I am teetotal as a rule, you know; but Society always tries my nerves, and I need sustenance. I wish the man I have to meet here had chosen my office in the city. But it wouldn't have done—it wouldn't have done. There would be trouble were it known that he was in London. What is the time, Prelice?"
"Don't mention my name or I'll mention yours," said Prelice impatiently, and drew out his watch. "It is eleven o'clock."
Haken nodded. "I must meet my man. Eleven-fifteen is the time. As to mentioning my name, what does that matter? I came here without my mask. Never thought of putting it on."
Prelice nodded in his turn. "I saw you when Rover received you."
"Then hold your tongue—hold your tongue. Not a word to Sophia, mind."
"Not a word," Prelice promised gravely; and Mr. Haken, drawing a long breath—it would seem to be of relief—at having extracted the promise, vanished into the many-hued crowd with his usual chuckle.
While the millionaire gave vent to that chuckle there did not seem to be much chance of his concealing his identity.
Lord Prelice looked after him somewhat puzzled. He could quite understand why Haken did not want his wife to know of his presence in Alexander Mansions; but it was difficult to account for the old man's agitation and quite unnecessary explanations. As a rule, Haken was extremely reticent, and on such an important matter as a secret meeting with a Continental diplomatist, would be much more so. Yet he had gone out of his way to set himself right with his nephew, and by telling his private business, when a gay excuse of needing a night off, would have been sufficient to account for his presence. However, Prelice simply shrugged his shoulders, and did not deem the incident worth remembering. Why should not Simon Haken enjoy himself in this way if he liked, and turn Mrs. Rover's ballroom into an office, wherein to meet his foreign clients? All the same—and Prelice gave this a passing thought—it was strange that the chance meeting with one who knew him should so upset him. And it was still stranger that, if Mr. Haken wished to preserve his incognito, he should have arrived unmasked.
Having lost both his uncle and his charming blue domino, Prelice took a tour through the rooms in search of further adventures. He could only afford a few minutes, since he had to call upon Shepworth at eleven o'clock, and it was already that hour, as he had told Haken. Still, a few minutes more or less would not matter, and Prelice wished to see if he could espy Mrs. Dolly Rover, in order to renew his acquaintance with her and to compliment her on the success of her ball. And it undoubtedly was a success, for everyone seemed highly amused, and the laughter and small talk went on incessantly. Many people were dancing to the music of a gaily uniformed Hungarian Band, and many more were ensconced in flirtation corners, making the best of the hour which would elapse before everyone unmasked for supper.
"I say, Ned. Ned, are you in?" cried the young man, pausing in the corridor, which was similar to that overhead in Mrs. Rover's flat. "I say, Ned! It is me. It is Prelice." And he slipped off his mask.
There was still no reply, and then Prelice smelt stronger than ever that strange odour, which had evoked the Easter Island vision. His thoughts again flew back to the heathen festival, and he walked along the corridor wondering why the scent should follow him here. On the left-hand side he peeped into a drawing-room, but it was empty. The door opposite was surely that of the dining-room. It was closed, but Prelice opened it and walked in to look for his friend. Shepworth was in the room sure enough, but Prelice uttered an irrepressible cry when his amazed eyes fell on the barrister.
In a deep saddle-back chair, placed between the fireplace and the near window, sat Shepworth, bolt upright, with his hands resting upon his knees, in the hieratic attitude of an Egyptian statue. His intensely calm face was pearly-white, his brown eyes were fixed in a glassy, unnatural stare, and he appeared as rigid and stiff and unbending as though hewn out of granite. There was no disorder about his clothing, the evening-dress he wore was as accurate and neat as though he had got ready to go to the ball overhead. Prelice stared at him, tongue-tied and motionless with astonishment. Then his eyes mechanically wandered round the room. They fell immediately upon another figure seated on the far side of the dining-table, with outstretched arms sprawling nervelessly across the cloth. On them rested a huge head covered with shaggy red hair.
Drawn, as by a loadstone, Prelice stole forward with staring eyes, and saw, with a sudden shudder, that the man at the table was stone-dead. He had been stabbed ruthlessly in the back, under the left shoulder-blade. Everything in the room was in absolute order. Only one man, dead, sat at the table, sprawling half across it, and the other man, insensible, was stiffly seated in the armchair. And the whole apartment was permeated with the scent which suggested Easter Island; suggested also that other murder at Lanwin Grange.
CHAPTER VII.
SHEPWORTH EXPLAINS.
An unsteady footstep roused Lord Prelice from his momentary stupor, and he wheeled automatically to see a little man, masked, and wearing a black silk domino, swaying to and fro at the open dining-room door. But the sight of the two apparently dead men, and the presence of their possible murderer, seemed to sober the newcomer in a single moment. Before Prelice could spring forward, he gasped and fled. Almost immediately his voice, tense with terror, was heard shouting the news of his discovery to the revellers on the stairs.
Prelice cursed under his moustache, and ran into the passage to close the outer door, which he now remembered he had foolishly left ajar. Possibly the little man, being intoxicated, had stumbled up the stairs on his way to the ball, and finding the door open, had so far mistaken his way as to stagger in. Prelice wondered if the stranger was Haken or Rover, both small of stature; but he recollected that he had never seen either drunk. Besides, drunk or sober, Rover or Haken would never mistake Shepworth's flat for the one overhead.
At the outer door Prelice swiftly changed his mind. He saw that the murder of the red-headed man was similar in all respects to that of Sir Oliver Lanwin. Then Miss Chent had been given time to recover, and so had been accused of the crime, although she protested that she had been in a state of catalepsy, induced by the scented smoke. Shepworth likewise was insensible, and, judging from the odour in
"I would rather you continued to do so," cried Prelice angrily. "It is absurd to think that Shepworth killed this man. Look at him," he pointed to the rigid form in the armchair; "he is incapable of raising a hand."
"Miss Chent was also incapable," sneered the captain, "yet——"
"She is innocent," stormed Prelice fiercely; "she no more killed her uncle than did Shepworth this witness."
Everyone was listening eagerly with open eyes and ears to the altercation; and it is impossible to say how long it would have continued, but for the entry of the police. Two constables pushed their way through the crowd, and forthwith—when they had taken in the situation—began to clear the place. The crowd of pleasureseekers, now unmasked for the most part, were driven outside. Some fled down the stairs, anxious to get away from the scene of the tragedy, while others returned to the Rovers' flat. But the fact of the murder ruined the ball. It broke up, like Macbeth's famous banquet, "with most admir'd disorder," and in ten minutes the rooms were deserted. Everyone ran away, as though from the plague, and Mr. Rover, looking like a frightened rabbit, came down to make inquiries.
"Is Shepworth dead?" he asked tremulously of a stalwart policeman whom he found guarding the closed door of Number Forty. "Everyone says that Shepworth is dead; and my wife has fainted."
"The doctor is with Mr. Shepworth now," said the constable gruffly. "I don't know what's the matter with him, and it ain't my duty to say anything, sir."
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" Rover wrung his small white hands. "How very, very dreadful all this is. Who is the other man—the dead man?" He handed the officer half-a-sovereign so as to gain a reply.
Dogberry unbent. "They do say, sir, as the corpse is Steve Agstone, who is the missing witness in the Lanwin murder case."
"How wicked—how very wicked. But if Mr. Shepworth is dead——"
"He ain't, sir," the constable slipped the gold into his pocket; "he's in a faint of sorts I believe. And they do say as he killed Steve Agstone, so as to save the young lady he's defending. Now I can't tell you more, sir, and I've said too much already. Just go home and keep quiet, sir. The police will look after this matter here."
Rover, still wringing his useless hands, and muttering to himself like the weak-brained little man he was, wearily climbed the stairs to his deserted ballrooms. As he ascended, two women and a man came down, white-faced and shaken. They tried to enter Number Forty, but the constable stretched forth a brawny arm to prevent entrance.
"But we must come in," said the man deferentially; "we are Mr. Shepworth's servants. I am his valet, this lady is the cook, and yonder is the housemaid. We have a right to enter."
"You can't until the doctor and the inspector have done with your master," said the constable stolidly. "And why aren't you in bed?"
The cook, a large, red-faced lady, gaily dressed, replied. "Mr. Shepworth allowed us to join Mrs. Rover's servants at the masked ball."
"Then none of you were in this flat when the murder was committed?" questioned the policeman, doing a little detective business on his own account.
"Oh, lor', no," cried the housemaid timidly; "we've been upstairs since nine o'clock helping Mrs. Rover's servants with the party. Do let us in, Mr. Policeman."
"Stay where you are until orders come," commanded the officer sternly; and the trio sat disconsolately on the stairs. With the instinct of self-preservation, they had thoroughly explained their absence from the scene of the crime, and now felt perfectly safe.
Meanwhile in the dining-room a young medical man, who had fortunately been present at the ball, was reviving Shepworth with brandy and ammonia. The windows had been thrown open, and the fresh air was filling the room so rapidly that scarcely a trace of the tuberose fragrance remained. Prelice, having laid aside his mask and domino, was standing near the door with his hands in his pockets, watching a man in uniform, who examined the dead along with the official doctor whom the police had called in. The first individual was Inspector Bruge, a keen-looking, sharp-eyed man, with a cleanshaven face and closely clipped grey hair, and an abrupt red-tape manner. Captain Jadby was not present, having departed with the rest of the too curious onlookers; but Lord Prelice remained, as he had been the first to discover the crime, and Bruge wished to hear his account of it. Already the Inspector's note-book was in his hand to note down the result of the official doctor's examination. There was a dead silence in the room, faintly broken by the distant roll of vehicular traffic, with the occasional hoot of a motor horn. The bell of a near church boomed out midnight so unexpectedly that Prelice jumped. He might well be excused for doing so, as his nerves were considerably shaken.
"Twelve o'clock," said Bruge crisply. "When did you discover the crime, my lord?"
"At half-past eleven," replied Prelice, shivering. "Good heavens, is it only half-an-hour since then? It seems like years."
"We were on the spot in ten minutes," said Bruge with official satisfaction, "and haven't been long in getting things ship-shape. Now that these ladies and gentlemen have gone, we can look into
matters. Doctor," he glanced at the young man attending to Shepworth, "is your patient reviving?"
"A trifle," answered the other, rising; "help me to place him near the window—in a draught."
"It is a long faint," said the Inspector, helping to wheel the armchair to the open window.
"It is not a faint at all. The man is in a cataleptic state, induced by the administration of some drug."
"Induced by the odour of a burning herb, you mean," said Prelice, looking at the rigid face of Shepworth, which was as expressionless as that of the dead man at the table.
"What's that?" questioned the Inspector, turning his head.
Prelice waved his hand. "I'll explain later, and after I have seen my friend Dr. Horace."
"Horace! Horace!" The medical man who was examining the corpse looked up at this remark. "I know him slightly. A great traveller, isn't he?"
"Yes," answered Prelice quickly; "he travelled with me to a little known part of the world called Easter Island. Lucky that he did so, and that I was with him. Between us we may be able to solve the mystery of this cataleptic business."
"You know that it is catalepsy, induced by some odour?"
"Of course I do. I have seen a man in that state before." And Prelice pointed to the rigid form of Shepworth.
"Where?" asked Bruge, looking at him with keen eyes, somewhat puzzled.
"That is what we wish to ask you," said the Inspector.
Shepworth passed his hand across his forehead, which was now moist with perspiration. "The police," he murmured, "and Agstone dead. Will you place me in the dock beside Mona?" he asked Bruge passionately.
Prelice sprang to his side, and caught him by the hand. "Ned, Ned!" he urged, "pull yourself together and tell us how Agstone came to be murdered in this room."
"I can't tell you," cried Shepworth, wrenching away his hand. "I can tell you no more than Mona could. She was in a trance, and saw nothing, only coming out of it to find the dead beside her. I was in a trance, and saw—— Ah!" he broke off, and his wild eyes went roving round the room, "where is the woman?"
"What woman?" asked Bruge suddenly, and kept his eyes on Shepworth's face with a look of severe scrutiny.
"The woman who came in, masked and cloaked. She came in. Agstone admitted her. She waved the bronze cup before me, and then I I—— Oh! what does it all mean?" he asked, breaking down, and with every reason, considering what he had undergone.
Prelice shook him gently by the shoulders. "I am beside you, Ned. I am looking after you. Only tell us everything you remember."
Shepworth stared straight before him, and then, as though a spring had been touched, he began to speak swiftly and coherently. "I was sitting reading in the drawing-room, when I heard three heavy blows struck on the wall of this room. As my servants were all upstairs, assisting at the ball, I wondered who was in my flat, and came out to inquire. The door of this room was closed, and I opened it to find a thick white smoke, smelling sweetly and sickly, curling from a bronze cup placed on the table. The fumes choked me, and I