“How do you know?”
“I only assert it, because I know the man.”
“Barry, you’re very young, even younger than your years. Try to realise that I’m not saying a word against Joyce or Mr. Courtenay, either, but—well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between them, you ought to see it, too.”
“I know they cared for each other, but I mean, Joyce and Eugene both were too high-minded to let their caring go very far.”
“High-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice. But don’t misunderstand me. Keep your faith in all the high ideals you can, both in yourself and others. What did you think of your father leaving such an enormous sum to Natalie?”
“It was more than I supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and often in erratic ways. He probably made that bequest one day when he was especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece.”
“Very likely. Miss Vernon doesn’t seem surprised about it.”
“Oh, she knew it. He told her a short time ago.”
“Do the police know that?”
“I fear so. And those are the things that worry me. If they think Natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against her. Of course, she didn’t, but all the evidence and clues in this whole business are misleading. I never saw or heard of such a mass of contradictory and really false appearances. That’s why I’d rather hush it all up, and not try to go farther.”
“Here comes Natalie now. I’ll leave you two alone and I’ll go to see what I can do with Joyce about that clairvoyant matter.”
Barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of Natalie entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind. Her white house gown was of soft crêpe material, with a draped sash of gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. Gold-hued slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it Natalie looked like a princess. With all her dainty grace and delicate lines, the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room Barry thought he had never seen anything so lovely.
“You angel!” he whispered; “you gold angel from a Fra Angelico picture! Natalie, my little angel girl!”
He held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny snowflake of a hand on his shoulder.
“Why do you stay in this room, Barry? I don’t like it in here.”
“Then we won’t stay. Let us go out on the Terrace in the sunlight.”
The Autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down.
“Here’s where we sat, the night of——” began Barry, and then stopped, not wanting to stir up awful memories.
“I know it,” returned Natalie. “You left me here,—where did you go, Barry?”
“Off with Thor and Woden for a short tramp. You said you were going upstairs, don’t you remember?”
“Yes. But where did you tramp?”
“Oh, around the grounds.”
“Which way?”
“What a little inquisitor! Well, let me see. We went across this lawn first.”
“Did you see Mr. Courtenay on that stone bench there?”
“No, I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Why?”
“I just wanted to know. Where did you go next? Come, Barry, I’ll go with you. Go over the same path you went that night.”
Barry looked at her curiously, and said, “Come on, then.”
They started across the lawn, and soon Natalie turned and looked back. “Could you see me from here?” she asked.
“Not at night, no. But I didn’t try. I thought you had gone in the house, and I went straight ahead. The dogs were jumping all over me, and I was thinking of them.”
“Oh, Barry! After the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of the dogs instead of me?”
“Well, the dogs were bothering me,—and you weren’t!”
“Where next?”
But Barry hesitated. “By Jove. I don’t know which way I did go next. Let me see.”
Natalie waited. “Down to the Italian gardens?” she said at last.
“No,—that is, I don’t think so. Where did I go?”
“Barry! You must know where you went. How silly.”
“It isn’t silly. I—I can’t remember,—that’s all.”
“Then you refuse to tell me?”
“I don’t refuse,—I just don’t remember.”
“Barry! Do remember. You must!”
After a moment’s silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying, “I have no recollection. Don’t ask me that again.”
Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in his arms. “Dear little girl,” he breathed in her ear, “don’t be afraid. It will all come out right. But we don’t want the truth known. Now, don’t give way,” as a sob shook Natalie’s quivering shoulders. “You mustn’t talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,—think of me!”
“I can’t very well help that,—when you’re so close!” and the lovely deep blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.
“You heavenly thing! Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?”
“If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn’t ever pose again, need I, Barry?”
“Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you marry me?”
“Oh, I can’t marry you! I can’t—I can’t!”
“Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn’t to be my wife!” and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket.
“I oughtn’t to be here—but—but I love you, Barry, I do—I do!”
“Of course you do, my blessed infant. Now, as we didn’t get along very well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let’s try again. Beatrice wants to go away from here. Do you want her to?”
“Oh, no! Don’t let her go. I’d be lost without her. I want to go, you know, but I can’t, I suppose. Beg her to stay as long as I do,—won’t you, dear?”
The pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that Barry kissed them both before replying. “I will, darling. I’ll beg anybody in the world for anything you want, if I have to become a professional mendicant. Now, brace up, Sweetheart, for I want to talk to you about lots of things, and how can I, if you burst into tears at every new subject I bring up?”
“I’m upset to-day, Barry mine. Don’t let’s talk. Just wander around the gardens.”
“Wander it is,” and Barry started off obediently, still with his arm round her.
“Unhand me, villain,” she said, trying to speak gaily. But it was impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke Barry’s heart for its sadness. He gathered her to himself.
“Dear heart, you are all unstrung. Go to your room for a time, don’t you want to? Let Beatrice look after you,—she’s kindness itself.”
“Indeed she is. I’ll do that. And I’ll come back, Barry, a new woman.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t do that! You’d make a fine militant suffragist!”
“No, not that. But a sensible, commonplace girl, who can talk without crying.”
“Commonplace isn’t exactly the word I’d choose to describe you, you wonder-thing! But run away and powder your nose, it needs it. Ha, I thought that would stir you up!” as Natalie pouted. “Run along, and I’ll see you at dinner time. And this evening we’ll have our chat.”
But that evening Orienta came. Joyce h
ad refused to listen to any one’s objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for a preliminary conference whether she gave them a séance or not.
Barry and Natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but Joyce persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or against her. Beatrice consented to be present, for Joyce had begged it as a special favour.
And so, when Blake ushered the stranger into the Reception Room she was greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household.
Nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from the first. At her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music.
“Mrs. Stannard?” she said, as Joyce rose and held out her hand. The long cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale violet, and the dark Oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality, while she returned the greetings.
Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta sank into it, and crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which Barry offered. Her purple hat was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor eccentric. She chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of dull white silk. Made in Oriental design, it was yet modishly effective and suited well the type of its wearer.
Though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. In looking at her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange personality. Each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and didn’t even glance aside to question the others’ approval.
Without seeming to notice this mute tribute, Orienta began to speak. “We will waste no time in commonplaces,” she said, her voice as perfectly modulated as that of a great actress, “they cannot interest us at this time. It is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my services in this matter of mystery. If so, well,—if not, I go away, and that is all.”
The name she had chosen to adopt was a perfect description of her whole personality. Her oval face was of olive complexion; her eyes, not black, but the darkest seal brown; her hair, as it strayed carelessly from the edges of the confining turban, was brown, in moist tendrils at the temples, as if she were under some mental excitement.
It was evident,—to the women, at least,—that the scarlet of her full lips, and the flush on her cheek bones, was artificial, but it gave the impression of being frankly so, and not with intent to deceive. It was perfectly applied, at any rate, and the flash of her ivory white teeth made her smile fascinating.
“That’s the word,” Barry Stannard thought, as it occurred to him, “she’s fascinating, that’s what she is. Not entirely wholesome, not altogether to be trusted, but very, very fascinating.”
With a subtle understanding, Orienta perceived that Barry had set his stamp of approval on her, and turned her attention to the women.
“I in no way urge or insist upon my suggestions,” she said. “I only tell you what I can do, and it is for you to say. For you, I suppose, Mrs. Stannard?”
“Yes,” said Joyce, and her tone was decided. “Yes, it is for me to say, and I say I want you. I want you to tell us anything you can,—anything—about the mystery that has come to this house. I want to know who killed my husband, and I want to know why, and all the details of the deed.”
“Oh,” Barry protested, “don’t begin with that, Joyce. Let Madame Orienta tell us something of less importance first. Let us have a séance or a reading or whatever the proper term may be, and test her powers.”
The visitor gave him a slow smile. “It is as I am instructed,” she said, in a matter-of-fact, every-day sort of way. “But I must inform you before going further, that my fees are not small. Test my powers in any way you choose, but I must include the test in my final statement of your indebtedness.”
“All right,” said Barry. “I’ll pay the test bill, and then, Joyce, if you want to go on with your plans, you can assume the further expense.”
“Can we do anything to-night?” asked Natalie. She had sat breathless, listening, but now, with eyes like stars, she eagerly questioned.
“You are interested?” and Orienta looked at her.
“Oh, so much. But I fear what you will reveal——”
“Fear my revelations!”
“Only because I know they will not be true, but you will make us think they are.”
Instead of being annoyed or offended, Orienta looked at her and smiled from beneath her heavy dark brows. “You are psychic, yourself,” she said.
“Yes,” said Natalie, “I am.”
CHAPTER XI
Sealed Envelopes
With a high hand Joyce carried the matter through. She ignored opposition and met remonstrance with a baffling disdain. She arranged for a return of Orienta for the experiments on the following evening, and after the departure of the medium, she declared she would listen to no comments on her actions and went off at once to her own rooms.
Beatrice Faulkner expressed herself guardedly. “I don’t care what revelations come,” she said, “except as they affect you people here. It doesn’t seem to me that that woman can say anything to make me think either Joyce or Natalie committed the crime, but I don’t want her to say anything that will make either of them uncomfortable.”
“If she does, there’ll be trouble,” declared Barry, gloomily. “I feel as you do, and I want to try her on any ordinary subject first——”
“But we are going to do that,” put in Natalie. “I’m crazy to see the whole performance, but I’m scared, too. I wish Joyce would promise not to go on with it if any one of us doesn’t like it.”
“She won’t promise that,” said Beatrice. “Joyce is bound to see it through. I don’t know what she expects from it, but she has no fear, that’s certain.”
* * * *
Orienta had stipulated that the séance take place in the studio, saying that the influences of the place would go far toward producing favourable conditions for her.
So they awaited her there, at the appointed time, and within a few minutes of the hour she arrived. Pausing in the hall to lay off her wraps, Orienta then glided into the great room where her group of auditors were assembled. This time she wore a robe of dark green, as full and flowing as the white one. There was no suggestion of Greek drapery, but an Oriental style of billowing folds that would have been hard to imitate. A jade bracelet showed beneath the flowing sleeve and a jade ring was on one finger of the long, psychic hand.
“May I look at it?” said Natalie, as they sat a moment, before beginning the séance.
“Certainly. It is my talisman,—my charm. Without it, I could do nothing.”
“Really? How wonderful!” and the girl looked earnestly at the carven stone. “Your power is occult, then?”
“I think it must be. Yet I would not be classed with the people who go by the general title of mediums. They are, usually, frauds.”
Orienta made this statement simply, as if speaking of some matter unconnected with her own work or claims. She gave the impression that if fraudulent “mediums” wished to impose upon the gullible public, it was of no interest to her, but she declined to be considered one of them. And so secure was she in her own sincerity, she deemed it unnecessary to emphasise or insist upon it.
“What is your wish?” she asked, at length. “Will you try me first on some outside matters or shall we proceed at once to the question of the mystery we seek to solve?”
Just then Robert Roberts was announced.
“What shall we do?” exclaimed Natalie. “Tell him to come some other time?”
“No,” said Joyce, “let him come in here with us. You don’t mind, do you, Madame Orienta?”
“No; why should I? Who is he?”
“The detective who is working on the case.”
Orienta shrugged her shoulders. “Of course it matters not to me. But are you sure you want him to know what I may rev
eal? It may incriminate——”
“I don’t care who may be incriminated!” exclaimed Joyce. “I want to find out a few things. As a matter of fact, I asked Mr. Roberts to come.”
Natalie turned pale. Had Joyce laid a trap? And for whom? What might they not learn before the evening was over?
Bobsy entered, and was duly presented to the visitor. He was courteous, but unmistakably curious.
“What may I call you?” he asked, as he bowed before her.
“Priestess, if you please,” she returned. “I refuse to be called a medium or a seeress or even a clairvoyant. I am these things, but the titles have been so misused that I claim only to be a Priestess of the Occult. This is no academic title, I simply name myself a priestess of the cult I express and follow.”
“Priestess, I greet you,” said Bobsy, and to those who knew him a shade of mockery might be detected in his tone. But it was the merest hint and quite unobservable to the one he addressed. In most decorous manner he took a place in the group, and Joyce announced the plan she had in mind.
“First,” she said, “we will have an exhibition of Oriental powers. We will follow her instructions and she will give us a showing of her methods and her feats. Then,—if I say so,—we will proceed to try the other experiment.”
“It is well,” said the Priestess. “Remember, please, I make no claims to magic or to witchcraft. I have, within myself, some inexplicable, some mysterious power that enables me to see clairvoyantly through material substances. I have also an occult power which allows me to see happenings at a distance or in the past as if they were transpiring here and now. These two powers are at your disposal, but further than that I cannot go. I cannot answer questions, unless they come within the range of the two conditions I have mentioned to you just now. I cannot read the future or tell fortunes. I can only see what is shown to me, and if I disappoint you, I cannot help it. Now let us proceed. I will ask you each to write a question on a slip of paper and enclose it in an envelope. Sign your name to your question and seal the envelope securely.”
The Alan Ford Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 30