The Master of the Priory

by Annie Haynes

  “Well, for a time it answered perfectly,” Elizabeth told him. “But lately, this last week or so, it has failed. Not only that, but it seems to have an absolutely contrary effect, and the hair seems lighter after each application.”

  The man looked surprised. “I don’t understand that, madam. You are sure you have applied it according to the directions?”

  “Quite sure, absolutely,” Elizabeth said with conviction. “As I have more than half a bottle of the liquid left, I brought it with me that you might see whether there is anything wrong with it. I have had no reason to complain until the last bottle. Is it a usual thing for the preparation to fail after a certain time?”

  The man looked puzzled. “We have never had such a case, madam. If you will allow me to see it perhaps I can find some explanation.”

  Elizabeth opened her bag and took out the bottle.

  “Here it is!” Then she threw back her veil.

  “You see it was to make my hair dark, and look at it now.”

  The man raised his eyebrows as he glanced across. Had Elizabeth but known, it was even lighter than in the morning. He took out the cork and smelt the contents of the bottle, his expression of perplexity deepening, then he poured a little in a saucer and looked at it. Finally he glanced up at Elizabeth.

  “If you would not mind waiting a few minutes, madam, I think I can soon tell you what is wrong.”

  Elizabeth sat down in one of the softly cushioned window seats. She was glad of the rest, for she was becoming aware that her sleepless nights had tired her, while the incessant worry of the past few months had told enormously on her once splendid physique.

  The man came back in a shorter time than she had expected.

  “It was as I thought, madam. The preparation in your bottle is not that supplied by us.”

  Elizabeth stared at him. “But it is! Do you not see your name on the bottle? The case is precisely as it came from you.”

  The man shook his head. “The name, the bottle and the case are all ours, madam, but the preparation has been substituted for ours. It is one of the most powerful bleaching mixtures I know, and so powerful that we should hesitate to employ it ourselves.”

  A sick feeling of fear was creeping over Elizabeth.

  “It can’t be, it can’t be,” she reiterated. “It has been kept locked up always. How could it have been changed?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell, madam. Only assuredly it was not done without hands.”

  No, Elizabeth saw that. The sickness that was creeping over her seemed to increase, her legs tottered under her. She sat down again suddenly.

  “Who could it have been?” she breathed half aloud. “Does somebody suspect? Does somebody know?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  BARBARA BURFORD was very unhappy, there was no doubt of that. The end of her love dream had been a terrible blow to her, and now to add to it Frank Carlyn was not inclined to take his dismissal quietly. Every post since he had received it had brought her letters from him. He seemed utterly unable to account for or understand the change in her attitude towards him, and his pleading for another trial, or at least for a hearing before his sentence was pronounced, formed only too ready a seconder in Barbara’s own treacherous heart. Yet her common sense told her that, knowing what she knew, she would be foolish in the extreme to consent to the renewal of an engagement which it seemed to her could only end in catastrophe. Explanations, too, were difficult, under the circumstances; so far Barbara had only taken refuge in silence. In spite of her father’s desire to have her at home she had asked Lady Davenant to keep her a few days longer at the Priory, to enable her to realize things a little and to prepare herself for the battle with her father which she knew would ensue on her return to Carlyn.

  With Frank’s last letter in her hand she was looking for some place of refuge where she might give herself the luxury of a long, quiet think. Sybil was with Sir Oswald in the study. Barbara peeped into the library—it was empty. It looked very comfortable with the firelight flickering on its capacious armchairs and wide, cushioned window-seats.

  Barbara ensconced herself on one of the latter with her head against the woodwork. She had no idea how completely the heavy velvet curtains hid her from the sight of anyone entering the room.

  There was nothing very fresh in Frank’s letter. It merely reiterated the fact that the feelings of the writer had in no way changed, and begged an interview so that he might convince Barbara that their old friendship had merged into love. Nevertheless as Barbara read it over again her eyes filled with tears. She sat there dreaming over it with misty eyes it seemed to her for hours, until the room grew dark but for the fitful gleams of the firelight, and then, tired out and worried, she fell into a restless doze.

  She never knew how long she had been asleep; she did not hear the door open and shut, but at last she was awakened by the sound of voices—Sybil’s and another which she did not at first recognize. She was about to get up and speak when she caught a sentence which made her pause.

  “So that was why Frank Carlyn recognized her?”

  “Of course,” answered the other speaker, whom, to her surprise, Barbara, now recognized as Susan, the schoolroom maid. “You remember that it was on his estate that the murder took place.”

  “Yes, and there was some talk about him and the woman, wasn’t there? Well, I don’t care if he does get into a bit of trouble too,” Sybil said viciously. “It will teach him not to help adventuresses who palm themselves off as governesses in decent people’s houses. You are sure there is no mistake?”

  “Impossible,” Susan said positively. “That thumb-mark you were able to get for us settled matters. Mrs. Winter left one or two such mementoes at the cottage. They are precisely identical.”

  There was no hesitation in Barbara’s mind now: eavesdropping or no eavesdropping she must hear the end of this conversation. She sat perfectly still, scarcely even daring to breathe. Presently Susan went on again:

  “It has been a sore point with my brother ever since that time that Winter’s wife escaped. There won’t be any mistake this time.”

  Sybil laughed, a hard, heartless sound that made Barbara shiver. “When are they going to arrest her?”

  “Very soon now,” the other answered. “They are going to Sir Francis Geyton’s for the warrant. They ought to be here within the hour. After all, though the woman doesn’t deserve any pity, Miss Lorrimer, I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her when I went into the schoolroom just now and saw her sitting there so quiet with Miss Maisie. She little knows what is in store for her to-night.”

  “I am not sorry for her a bit,” Sybil said with a hard laugh. “Do you suppose my cousin would have her to teach his child if he knew that she was a murderess?”

  “Well, it has got to be proved yet that she is, you know,” Susan remarked cautiously, “though I don’t think there is much doubt about it myself.”

  “Not a bit, I should say,” Sybil agreed quickly. “I know Sir Oswald always thought her guilty. It is the irony of fate that he, who took so much interest in that case, should actually have the criminal hiding in his own house. But”—her voice suddenly altering—“what about Mrs. Sunningdale? She recommended her so strongly, and I can’t understand—”

  “Oh, don’t you see that this isn’t the Miss Martin who was with Mrs. Sunningdale at all?” Susan interrupted. “That poor thing died in hospital the fortnight before Miss Maisie’s governess came to the Priory. She was visited while she was dying by a tall, fair woman, answering to Mrs. Winter’s description, and there can be little doubt that when Miss Martin was dead the idea of impersonating her occurred to Mrs. Winter. She might have carried the affair on much longer but for your finding the photograph of her husband which Mr. Gregg recognized and which put him on the right track.”

  “I was certain from the first that she was an adventuress, and I was determined to expose her.” Sybil’s tone was full of triumph; not one thought of pity h
ad she for the woman whose doom was so swiftly approaching.

  “Who will make the arrest?” she went on. “Your brother?”

  “Oh, no, Jim has given up the regular force. Two officers came down from Scotland Yard this morning. It is they who will manage everything now. But, Miss Lorrimer, don’t you think some care should be taken that Lady Davenant is not frightened?”

  “Oh, yes. I will tell her maid not to let anyone go in to her but Sir Oswald, and myself,” Sybil said carelessly. “I wonder what Sir Oswald will say when he knows the truth. I shall enjoy seeing his face.”

  Susan made a quick movement of repulsion. She was hardened to the hunting down of criminals, but there was something in Sybil’s attitude towards the unfortunate governess that revolted her, detective though she was.

  She turned to the door. “That is all, then, I suppose, Miss Lorrimer?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Sybil said doubtfully. “You will be watching her until the arrest is made, of course?”

  Susan nodded.

  “She doesn’t want much watching, poor thing; she is sitting as quiet as you please in the schoolroom, with her book. But I am going to put Miss Maisie to bed, and then I can make an excuse to be tidying up and be going in and out and keep an eye on her until they come.”

  “That is all right, then,” Sybil said in a satisfied tone. “The house is watched too, you said?”

  Susan nodded. “Oh, yes. And both the lodges. Oh, she is safe enough, don’t you fear, Miss Lorrimer.”

  “Well, we shall meet when the detectives come, I suppose,” Sybil said with a light laugh. “Till then—” She opened the door and Barbara heard them both go out of the room.

  Left alone, Barbara sat perfectly still for a minute or two, her hands pressed tightly to her forehead, trying to gather her scattered wits together, to realize the sense of what she had heard.

  That Sybil should have done as her words implied, that she should have introduced a private detective into her cousin’s house in order to spy out the past of a member of his household seemed inconceivably horrible to Barbara. As she dropped her hands they fell on Frank Carlyn’s letter lying in her lap; and she started quickly as if she had been stung. What would this news—this arrest mean to him?

  She shivered as she pictured the trouble that might be in store for him. A year ago at Carlyn she had refused to believe the gossip that whispered that Frank Carlyn was oftener at his head gamekeeper’s cottage than was necessary, and hinted that the latter’s pretty wife was the attraction. Yet, deny it as she might, a doubt had rankled in Barbara’s mind—a doubt which had changed into something much stronger when she saw the governess at the Priory, and marked the understanding which evidently subsisted between her and Carlyn.

  But Barbara’s nature was entirely unlike that of Sybil Lorrimer. Not a finger would she have raised to separate Carlyn from the woman she thought he loved. Was it possible that anything could avert the evil that Sybil had wrought, she asked herself. The thought crossed her mind that the governess might make her escape before the officers arrived, but the time was so short, barely an hour, Susan had said. If it had been possible she would have sent for Carlyn, but as it was she could think of no one upon whom she could rely to help the poor, hunted woman upstairs. Of Sir Oswald’s feelings towards his child’s governess she was in entire ignorance. She had noted Sybil’s jealousy and judged it to be quite unfounded as far as she could see. But, even had she known of it, Sir Oswald in his helplessness could not have given her the help she wanted to-night. The house was watched, she had heard, and, even if it were possible to elude the watchers, where could the fugitive go? Unless she had some place of refuge she would inevitably be overtaken and arrested. Barbara’s head reeled as she thought of it. But she pulled herself together in a minute. The time was short, the poor thing in the schoolroom must be warned.

  The idea crossed Barbara’s mind that Mrs. Winter had successfully engineered one escape. Perhaps she might be able to think of something now.

  The girl’s limbs felt stiff and heavy as she stood up, her head ached violently as she made her way upstairs to the schoolroom. Maisie’s bedroom was just down the passage. Knocking at the schoolroom door Barbara could hear the child talking, could catch some of the maid’s rejoinders. She shivered as she recalled the girl’s promise to Sybil that she would be about the schoolroom until the detectives came.

  “Come in!” Miss Martin said in her clear, low voice.

  She was, as Susan had said, sitting by her table reading. She looked up in surprise as Barbara opened the door.

  “Miss Burford, Maisie has just gone to bed.”

  “Yes, I know,” Barbara said, coming into the room and closing the door very carefully behind her. “I came to see you, not Maisie.”

  “To see me!” The governess rose and moved forward a chair. “How very kind of you!” she said gratefully.

  With a quick motion of her head Barbara declined the chair.

  “I came,” she began abruptly, then she broke off, her breath catching in her throat with a curious husky sound.

  How could she tell this woman confronting her so quietly the tidings she had brought. But there was no time to be lost. After all the simplest words would be the best. She looked away from the governess’s surprised face, her eyes following mechanically the antics of Maisie’s kitten playing on the hearthrug.

  “I came to warn you,” she said in a husky tone. “To tell you that I have accidentally learned that you are in great danger, that unless you can manage to make your escape you will be arrested.”

  “Arrested!” The governess sank back in her chair, her face turned a livid white. She put out her hands imploringly. “Ah, no, no!”

  “There is no doubt, I am afraid,” Barbara said in the same jerky fashion. “Unless you can think of a way of escape, and there is very little time.”

  Elizabeth tossed her spectacles on the table. Her grey eyes were full of horror and appeal.

  “I—I can’t think of anything,” she moaned.

  “Stay, give me one moment. But I must go at once before they come.”

  She caught up a garden hat that lay on a chair beside her and began to pin it on. Then she stopped short in bewilderment and stared at the girl in front of her.

  “You know?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said quietly. “I have known ever since I came. I think I recognised you at once.”

  The big, grey eyes opposite hers were still dilated—fixed upon her.

  “And you kept silence—you would help me?” the governess breathed.

  “Yes,” Barbara said simply. “I want to help you—for Frank Carlyn’s sake.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THERE WAS a moment’s tense silence. The governess’s face, which until then had been full of feeling, grew suddenly hard and grave, her grey eyes looked cold.

  “She must get me out of the way for Frank Carlyn’s sake,” she said slowly to herself.

  “I see,” she said aloud. “Yes, it will be awkward for Mr. Carlyn when I am arrested.”

  Barbara caught her breath quickly.

  “But you must not be arrested—for both your sakes. Can’t you think of anything—go anywhere?”

  “How can I go anywhere?” the woman opposite questioned with white, stiff lips. “I should be watched, followed?”

  Barbara clasped her hands. “If I could get you out of the house have you anywhere you could go—where you would be safe?”

  The governess did not answer. Her eyes glanced restlessly at the window, through which in the daytime a distant glimpse of the chimneys of Walton Grange could be obtained. In that minute Elizabeth’s pride fought a battle at its last stronghold—fought and was vanquished. She was beaten to the very ground now and she knew it. If it were possible to save her there was nothing left for her but the one refuge she had sworn never to claim. She made a weary gesture of surrender and she turned to Barbara.

  “Yes, if I could get away from here I think I shoul
d be safe.”

  “Then I have thought of something,” Barbara began hurriedly, then she stopped short. There was the loud teuf-teuf of a motor in the drive beneath. “The Turners’ car,” she exclaimed. “Just what I was hoping for. Algy was to bring me a parcel from town on his way to the station. We are saved.”

  “How—I don’t understand,” the governess said helplessly.

  “He shall drive you to safety,” Barbara said eagerly. “Wait quietly here, Miss Martin. I must go down and explain to him.”

  “But you can’t tell him—he won’t—” Elizabeth gasped.

  “That will be all right,” Barbara assured her. She ran out of the room and downstairs at full speed.

  The car was standing before the open door. Young Turner was leaning out talking to the butler.

  “Algy, Algy!” she called out. “I want you.”

  “And I want you,” he retorted with a laugh. “I have the new car. Come for a spin and try her—she is a beauty.”

  All the Turners were fond of Barbara. Algy, the young hope of the house, a boy of twenty, was particularly devoted to her.

  “I believe I will,” Barbara said gaily, though all her pulses were thrilling with fear. Suppose the detectives came before she was ready? She ran down the steps. “Sure you won’t spill me? Oh, she is a beauty. I really can’t resist her.” Then she cast an anxious look round. The butler was out of ear-shot. If unseen watchers were in the bushes it was impossible that they should catch what she said. Her tone changed.

  “Algy, will you help me? I want a friend badly.”

  “Why, of course I will. You know that, Barbara,” young Turner said heartily. “What is it?”

  Barbara drew him down to her. “There is some one here to-night who must be got away without anyone knowing. She shall come down to you in a minute dressed in my things. Will you do this for me, Algy?”

  “I would do much more than that to help you,” young Turner responded warmly. “And this sounds as if it might be jolly fun.”

  Barbara caught her breath. “It isn’t fun at all,” she said desperately. “It is dead earnest, and it is only fair to tell you, Algy, that you may get into awful trouble about it. But I don’t know who else to turn to. I must have help to-night at once.”