“Did you speak to me?” asked Serafine.
The stranger moved a step nearer, and still gazing with that childish, half-frightened look at Serafine’s kindly and humorous face, said in a very low voice:
I wondered... I thought... You see, I have forgotten the address.”
“Yes?” asked Serafine encouragingly. “What address?”
The woman moved still closer to her, as if she had decided to trust her, and repeated, still in that quiet, confidential way:
“I have forgotten the address. I know it was in Hampstead somewhere. So I came to Hampstead. But now I don’t know what to do...
Her lip trembled absurdly on the last word. Her eyes were tragic. A certain clouded obtuseness in their look gave Serafine a queer, uncomfortable sensation, as if she were dealing with a being not quite human.
“Tell me,” she said, instinctively speaking very clearly and slowly as if to a child, “who it is you want to see. Perhaps they are in the telephone book.”
The other shook her head slightly. A small hand crept out and laid itself on Serafine’s arm, as if to make sure she did not lose patience and go away. Serafine, who by now felt fairly sure that she had to deal with a lunatic, asked gently:
“Well, what is your name? Where do you come from?”
“I was at an hotel. I—I wanted to go away. I was frightened...” She passed a hand across her eyes. “I took my luggage and went to a station—to Victoria. But then I didn’t know where to go. And I remembered Dr. Merewether—”
At Serafine’s instinctive start she stopped short and shrank a little away from her as if frightened.
“So I came here on a bus,” she went on nervously. “I wish—I wish I hadn’t. I’m so frightened out of doors. But when I’m indoors I’m frightened too, and want to come out; isn’t it funny?”
Her voice sank to a whisper. Serafine took her hand in a firm clasp.
“Well, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” she said cheerfully, but inwardly greatly confused and puzzled. “I’ll take you where you want to go, if I can. Or you can come home with me. Is it Dr. Merewether you want to go to?”
The strange woman nodded, looking submissively at Serafine as if at the arbiter of her destiny.
“He told me his address, but I forgot it. Something—something made me forget... I was frightened...”
Her brows knitted as though in painful thought, and her lips drooped with an expression of vague distress. She shook her head.
“I can’t remember.”
“We’ll take a taxi,” said Serafine, tucking the small hand under her arm. “I know the address.”
She had, in fact, looked it up in the telephone directory the night before, when she had had an abortive impulse to ring him up and warn him—warn him of what? She did not know, so she had not rung up.
They walked together down the hill. Serafine’s heart warmed to the queer, beautiful stranger who walked so confidingly at her side. She wondered whether Dr. Merewether and his sister supplemented their incomes by taking patients with mild mental troubles off the hands of their relations. It seemed a reasonable explanation of this queer encounter.
“Poor little Ophelia,” murmured Serafine, pressing her hand to her side.
“No, Phyllis,” murmured the stranger automatically, and then stopped short and looked up at Serafine with distressed and clouded eyes. “Phyllis,” she repeated uncertainly. “Is that my name? I—I feel as if it must be. A little while ago I couldn’t remember. But now... Phyllis. Phyllis.”
She rubbed her little hand clumsily over her eyes as if there were cobwebs there.
“Don’t worry,” said Serafine. “What does a name matter? Dr. Merewether’ll remember it for you.”
“Yes. Yes,” said the stranger, with a sudden enchanting smile that narrowed her dark eyes into bright crescents. “He will, won’t he?”
“Here’s the taxi-rank. Hullo, that’s Mordby’s car. I suppose he’s on his way to my prostrated aunt.”
A large, mulberry-coloured limousine swung round the corner, and Dr. Mordby raised his hand in greeting as it passed. Then, to Serafine’s astonishment, he leant out of the window, stared at her and her companion with extraordinary interest for a second and spoke to his chauffeur. The car drew in and stopped a little way up the hill.
“What the dickens,” said Serafine to herself, with her hand on the door of her taxi, “does he want, I wonder? I suppose we’d better wait and see.”
To her surprise her companion gave a little wail.
“No, no, no! Take me away!”
Turning sharply, Serafine saw that the beautiful face was white as paper and drawn into an expression of horror. The limousine door swung open and Mordby stepped on to the pavement. Inwardly bewildered but outwardly decisive, Serafine bundled her companion unceremoniously into the taxi, gave the driver Merewether’s address and stepped in herself. As she shut the door she heard Mordby’s voice from the pavement: “Miss Wimpole, one moment....” The taxi started and left him standing there. Looking through the little window in the back Serafine saw him staring after them with an expression of surprise which gave way immediately to a look of determination. He swung round on his heel and walked quickly back to his car.
“Good Lord,” murmured Serafine to herself, “I believe he’s going to follow us! I do wish I understood the meaning of all this. I suppose”—she turned tentatively to the woman cowering at her side—“you can’t explain?”
“Don’t let him see me,” whispered the other brokenly. “Take me away.... Don’t let him come! I hate him! I hate him!”
Serafine looked back. The limousine had turned and was gliding after them down the hill. She glanced dubiously at her companion, inclined to believe now that her Ophelia had escaped from some private asylum of Dr. Mordby’s. In that case she ought to stop the taxi and deliver her back into custody, for her own sake. But—
“Oh, blow!” thought Serafine aloud. “I never did like old Mordby. Here goes!”
She leant out of the window and spoke to the driver.
“I’ll give you ten shillings if you can shake off that big maroon car that’s following us. Take any route you like. Go round and round in circles. Only lose the maroon car before you take us to the address I gave you.”
“Right you are, Miss,” replied the driver laconically, “how much start’ve we got?”
“About a hundred yards. You can’t possibly outdistance it. You must just turn down every corner and up the next till it’s lost.”
“Very good, Miss,” replied the cabman woodenly, and the cab shot with surprising suddenness round a corner into a side street, along the street for fifty yards, round another corner and out into the High Street again. Taking a business-like silk handkerchief out of her coat-pocket, Serafine offered it to the weeping woman at her side, slipped an arm round her slight shoulders, and settled down to enjoy the extraordinary twists and turns taken by their cabman who, it seemed, liked to do things thoroughly. After an eccentric and expensive journey, during which they explored thoroughly Hampstead, Swiss Cottage and St. John’s Wood, the taxi drew peacefully up before a small, quiet house in a road full of small, quiet houses.
“Here you are, Miss,” he remarked, opening the door. “I done what you said all right, I fancy. Your friend’s gone back to bed long ago, I wager.”
“Thank you,” said Serafine, paying him. “We enjoyed the drive. I congratulate you on your thoroughness.”
“That ain’t nothing, lady,” replied the cabman modestly, pocketing his fare. “Why, I’ve ’ad a dead body in this very cab. ’Member the trunk murder last year? It was me as drove the trunk to the station. ’Ad to give evidence afterwards, I did.” He looked curiously at the woman in black as Serafine helped her out of the cab. “Not arf ’eavy, that trunk wasn’t!”
“Well, thanks very much,” said Serafine with a smile, opening the garden gate.
“Oh, ’twasn’t nothing to me, lady!” replied the driver, gazing earn
estly at her as if to impress her image on his memory. “’Ad to give evidence afterwards, I did,” he repeated with relish, and climbed into his seat and drove off.
The strange woman gave no sign of recognizing her surroundings as they waited in the pretty little drawing-room. She looked listlessly about her and then turned and looked out of the window. Serafine began to wonder whether she had not been rather foolish in behaving in this impulsive manner. Suppose Dr. Merewether disclaimed all acquaintance with this lady? What should Serafine do with her? Take her home to Hampstead, she supposed, and try to trace her relations through the police. What would Imogen say? She was still wondering what Imogen would say to this lovely but unbalanced addition to her peaceful household when the door opened and Dr. Merewether entered. He looked pale and stern and the smile he gave Serafine was the formal and guarded smile of habit.
“How do you do, Miss Wimpole? I hope—”
Becoming aware of Serafine’s companion he stopped suddenly, halting in the doorway, and gazed across the room incredulously.
“Phyllis?” he whispered in the queerest tone of unbelief blended with relief and joy; and then as the stranger turned her head towards him: “Phyllis! Phyllis! I’ve been waiting for you! Why didn’t you come?”
Serafine’s protégée stood up with a little sob.
“I forgot! I forgot!” she cried, and stepped forward into his arms.
“But why?” he cried reproachfully. “These three days—it’s been agony! Not knowing where you were! Not knowing—”
She burst into tears.
Serafine said expressionlessly:
She’s lost her memory, or something,” and turned to the window and stood looking out at the prim laurestinus bushes. A queer little pain sawed at her heart. She started to count the garden palings as if her life depended on numbering them aright. When she had brought them to the same number—one hundred and seventy-four—three times in succession, she suddenly lost interest in them, and turning back into the room discovered that the pain in her heart was almost gone and that she could contemplate with almost complete equanimity the sight of the beautiful stranger clinging, as a drowning sailor to a spar, to Dr. Merewether’s arm. She said amiably:
“Well, I’m glad it was I who happened to meet her.”
“I can’t tell you,” replied the doctor gravely, “how glad I am, nor what a load of anxiety you’ve taken away from me, Miss Wimpole.” He paused, looking at her seriously. “I don’t know how much you know, or guess, nor what this poor child may have told you—”
“Nothing,” said Serafine. She added slowly: “I think I would rather not know or guess anything, Dr. Merewether.”
“You are a stranger both to her and to me. Perhaps you may never realize how much I am in your debt for what you have done this morning.” He gave a sudden wry smile. “Perhaps, on the other hand, you will. Time will show.”
“Dr. Merewether,” said Serafine, returning his glance squarely and gravely, “I think there is some danger. I can’t help you. But if there is anything you can do to help yourself, you had better do it.”
“Thank you,” he returned equably. “There is one thing you can do for us, if you will, Miss Wimpole, though I am aware that I have no right to ask it of you. Do not mention your meeting with this poor girl. I have a very strong reason for asking you this, but I will not tell you the reason. It is better for you that I should not.”
“I won’t tell a soul. But Dr. Mordby knows I met her. He saw us. He tried to follow us, but we shook him off.”
Merewether looked grave and reflected for a moment.
“Mordby,” he said slowly. “H’m. Yes. Thank you, Miss Wimpole.” His steady, ironical eyes hid his thoughts.
“Dr. Mordby is not your friend.”
He smiled.
“True. He is not.”
There was a pause. Merewether looked gravely and tenderly at the woman who still clung to his arm, as if she were a responsibility he gladly bore but found none the less heavy for his gladness. She looked back at him as if he were her hope and strength embodied. Serafine said:
“I’ll leave you now. You must have a good deal to think about.”
He looked at her and smiled his gravely humorous smile.
“You may hear of us again, Miss Wimpole. I hope very much that you will not.” He added in a lower tone, as if speaking to himself: “At least we are together. And there should be a way out.”
“If I could help you I would. If I can ever help you 1 will. Good-bye, Dr. Merewether, and good luck to you and her.”
The doctor moved to see her out of the house, but Phyllis cried out in apprehension at the thought that he was about to leave her, and clung to him, so he stayed. Serafine let herself gently out of the door, taking away with her the image of the tragic lovers as she had last seen them standing side by side and hand in hand. She felt a little awed and resignedly conscious of limitations to herself, as the comic spirit must feel measured against the scale of tragedy. She walked up to the high road and took a taxi to Hampstead. “My God!” said Serafine to herself, “I hope they get out of this safely. Oh, God, let them get out of this safely.”
The taxi drew up outside her cottage gate, behind the mulberry-coloured limousine of Dr. Mordby. Serafine’s spirits rose at the sight of it. She felt that a duel with the enemy would appease a little the restless and helpless longing for activity which had taken hold of her. The chauffeur was standing by the car reading the lunch edition of an evening paper, and at the sight she thought: Oh, the newspapers of the next few days! The faint hope of Merewether’s innocence that she had managed to keep alive was now finally extinguished. His escape could be only accomplished by the triumph of one man’s wits over the entire police organization of England. A forlorn hope, indeed. She remembered how he had said: “There should be a way out,” and shuddered, even while she prayed that he might be able to take it.
Dr. Mordby came down the stairs as she entered the hall. He looked unruffled and self-possessed as ever, treading lightly as a cat, swinging his eyeglass by its broad ribbon, distinguished, prosperous and at peace with the world.
“Good morning, Dr. Mordby. How do you find my aunt?”
He enveloped her hand in his white, boneless fingers and smiled.
“She will be all right after a sleep. A slight shock to one of the nerve-centres. She is anxiously awaiting your return.”
“I passed your car in the High Street not long ago,” said Serafine blandly.
“I was on my way here. You had a lady with you whose face is quite familiar to me, a former patient of mine, I fancy, though I cannot quite place her.”
“Friend of mine,” said Serafine, beginning to enjoy herself. “Just come back from South Africa. A Miss Sykes.”
Not a muscle of Mordby’s face moved.
“Ah!” he said negligently. “Then I must have been mistaken in thinking I knew her. I had only the most fleeting glimpse of her as my car passed.”
“The world,” said Serafine sententiously, “is a very small place. A charming girl. I hadn’t seen her since our school days until I met her by chance in the High Street just now. But I knew her at once.”
“I am not surprised. From the glimpse I had of her she appeared to be an exceedingly beautiful young lady.”
“Don’t suppose I shall see her again for another twenty years. She told me her address, but I’ve unfortunately forgotten it.”
Mordby’s eyes twinkled.
“Too bad. I was hoping for an introduction.” He looked benignly at Serafine with his large head on one side. “What a delightful witness you would make in the law-courts, Miss Wimpole.”
“Yes, I was always a good liar.”
“The penalty for perjury is rather cramping to a talent for mendacity, though.”
“That is why I spend so little of my time in the law-courts. I prefer to practise mendacity as an amateur.”
“An amateur,” repeated Mordby amiably, “one who works for love... Go
od-bye, Miss Wimpole. Let me congratulate you once again upon the possession of an exceedingly well-balanced mind. A rare gift, as you would know if you followed my profession.”
“Good-bye, Dr. Mordby. Do you take the longest way round or the shortest way home?”
“I shall inquire the way at the taxi-rank,” replied Dr. Mordby blandly.
Serafine shut the door gently.
“Hell-fire and damnation,” she said thoughtfully. “Suppose he does...” She hesitated a moment and then went quickly to the telephone.
“Hullo! Is that Primrose Hill 1397? Is Dr. Merewether in?”
Faint and far away, a woman’s voice replied:
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“Miss Serafine Wimpole.”
“I am Dr. Merewether’s sister. Dr. Merewether is away. Dr. Smythe is taking over his practice until he returns. Dr. Smythe arrives this afternoon.”
“Oh! I didn’t know Dr. Merewether was going away!”
“No. It was rather sudden. Dr. Merewether’s brother has been taken ill.”
The Studio Crime: A Golden Age Mystery Page 18