by Annie Haynes
“But why on earth didn’t you tell people that it was an accident? Why didn’t you go for help?” Carlyn questioned excitedly.
Retford scratched his head in a puzzled fashion.
“It seemed to me as we might not have been believed. I was a fool. I see that plain enough now. But I had lost one child, or as good as lost her, and I thought I couldn’t run the risk of losing the other. Jim there, he wasn’t the poor creature then that he is now—but a fine upstanding lad he was, just the pride of my life. It came across me that they might think he had done it on purpose, or they might have said he wasn’t under proper control, and sent him away from us to a reformatory or something of that kind. I lost my head, sir, that is what it come to, and when my senses did come back to me it was too late to speak out, least it seemed so to me. But I always thought as they would have said it was an accident; I never guessed they would think it was murder, and if Mrs. Winter had been took I should have spoke out. That is all, sir.”
His head sank on his breast as he finished, his son was leaning against a tree trunk close at hand, the picture of abject misery.
The inspector, after conferring for a minute with Sir Oswald and Carlyn beckoned to them.
“You had better come down to the station with me, Mr. Retford, you and your boy, and we will have all this put down in writing.”
The keeper made no demur. He turned quietly with the policeman, Jim shambling along in his wake.
Frank Carlyn stared after them in a state bordering on stupefaction.
Sir Oswald touched his arm. “Come, we must follow them, our evidence may be wanted.”
Carlyn turned and stared at him, “What in Heaven’s name made you suspect this?”
Sir Oswald shook his head. “As a matter of fact I did not suspect this. I felt sure that Retford knew something of the matter. An accident showed me that young Retford was in the habit of coming here most days. Instinct told me he would be here to-day, and with Garth’s help I arranged that little tableau, hoping to frighten the truth out of him. Garth and his friends are capital amateur actors, and I got the idea of reconstructing the crime partly from the French Police and partly from ‘The Bells.’ You remember Irving’s big scene? But I must confess I really suspected his father, who I fancied had shot Winter in his rage at his daughter’s betrayal. However, it seems I was wrong, and the Home Wood mystery turns out to have been accidental, and no murder at all.”
Carlyn held out his hand.
“I can’t realize it yet. But I congratulate you most heartily, Davenant, and later on I shall hope to have an opportunity of congratulating Lady Davenant personally.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
ROSAMOND TREADSTONE tapped at the door of her stepmother’s room. It was very early, none of the household were astir yet, but the door was thrown open instantly, and Lady Treadstone herself appeared fully dressed.
“I was expecting you,” she said in a dull, level tone, “come in.” She closed the door behind them and stood and looked at the girl. She herself was very pale, and her eyes were dim and weary, her hair had grown visibly greyer in the past few weeks.
Rosamond drew her to the open window. Her hands as she laid them on Lady Treadstone’s arm felt hot and feverish, two red spots burned on her cheeks, her grey eyes had dark shadows under them, the pupils were dilated.
“Look here,” she said impatiently.
She pointed to the water washing the foot of the rock gleaming in the sunrise. Porthcawel lay behind. They had a glimpse of the open sea as they gazed westwards. But it was not on the blue, rippling water that Lady Treadstone’s eyes were fixed in a kind of horrified fascination, but on a tiny boat that lay on the water a little way out. At first sight there was nothing alarming about it. It held two men who were doing nothing but lie back in their seats, letting the placid sea drift it where it would.
“I saw them directly I opened my eyes,” Lady Treadstone said beneath her breath. “Rosamond, what does it mean?”
“The end,” the girl said quietly, “it is no use fighting against it any longer, mother. I have known it was inevitable since I met Marlowe on the beach, but I wish for your sake it had happened at the Priory, that I had never come here. I only bring trouble on everyone.” She burst into choking sobs.
Lady Treadstone drew her gently to a chair. “Hush, child!” she said, her own voice trembling. “Never say that. Now we must not give way. We must think what we can do—how we can save you, get you away.”
Rosamond shook her head.
“It is too late. We are watched on all sides. No, this time Marlowe has won and I have lost. I don’t know that it would matter much”—with a dreary sob—“that it would not be for the best, for I am tired of a life of lies and subterfuge, but for the trouble it must bring on you, the disgrace to my father’s name.”
Lady Treadstone laid her hand on the down-bent, golden head.
“We must face it bravely if it comes—for your dear father’s sake,” she whispered.
Rosamond sat still for a minute. Lady Treadstone waited, her hands still mutely caressing the pretty, ruffled hair, her eyes still watching the boat with the two silent men. At last the younger woman spoke in a harsh, unnatural voice.
“I don’t know. It is wisest sometimes to run away. And when I can’t stand the thought of it all, when it comes to me in the night, and I realize the shame, the publicity, it comforts me to remember that there are still ways left, that one plunge into the deep water there”—she threw her hands outward—“would end it all, would set us free.”
Lady Treadstone shivered.
“Ah, no, no, Rose,” she said, recurring to the old childish name, “your father’s daughter would never choose the coward’s way. It will soon be over, Rose. We will engage the cleverest lawyers in England, and you will be free. And then—there will be Oswald to think of.”
“Yes, there will be Oswald to think of,” Rosamond repeated. She sprang to her feet shaking off her stepmother’s gentle, detaining hand, and leaning against the window frame, a tragic figure with her white strained face, the droop of her strong, young figure. In some indescribable way she seemed to have shrunk in the last few days. Her gown hung loosely upon her, the masses of golden hair seemed to overshadow the small, peaked face. “There will be Oswald to think of,” she said once more, “there is Oswald to think of”—her voice gaining in strength—“when I remember him, mother, his love and goodness to me, then it—the water—seems the only possible end. Haven’t you realized that he is a very proud man, and I”—with a pitiful gesture of self-abandonment—“am not a wife to be proud of, am I? Yes, there will always be Oswald to think of. Merciful Heaven, if I could only forget.”
Lady Treadstone made no answer, save that he lips moved slightly, but no sound came. Out there on the water there were three boats. One stood out some little distance, the other two were moving nearer. The two men who had been motionless so long were bending to their oars; they were making for the rock. The very sight seemed to paralyse Lady Treadstone; she was absolutely incapable of movement; her very brain was benumbed. Vaguely she felt that there were things that ought to be done, that Rosamond ought to be saved in spite of herself, yet she could do nothing but stand there and watch and wait. From the boats her eyes wandered to a large portrait of her husband, painted by a well-known Academician, that hung over the fireplace. It was a wonderful likeness; one could have fancied he had just been speaking; the smile still lingered in the keen, grey eyes, round the firm, well-cut mouth. She shivered as she asked herself what he would have said, what he would have done if he had known of the fate awaiting his dearly loved, only child. That he had died literally of a broken heart at his daughter’s desertion of him and the manner of it, his widow knew only too well. Though she had been his first love, though his heart had been faithful to her through all the circumstances of their parting, Lady Treadstone had felt herself powerless to comfort him, as she felt powerless now to help Rosamond herself.
As t
he two stood there waiting, there was a knock at the big front door of the Hold, a ring that echoed through the whole house. Rosamond turned slowly and faced the door. In her beautiful eyes was the look of some wild creature brought suddenly to bay. Another moment, and the expected summons came, Greyson white and trembling, opened the door.
“Missie, Missie, my dear, there are two men asking for you in the hall, but don’t you go, my dearie, it is only over our dead bodies that they shall get you.”
“Dear old nursie.” The girl came swiftly across the room. In a measure some of her old strength and vitality was restored to her, some of the old imperious ring to her voice. She stooped and kissed the old woman’s wrinkled cheeks. “It’s no use, nursie dear, I must speak to them. You wait here with her ladyship.” She moved to the door.
But her words aroused Lady Treadstone from the terrified apathy that seemed to have come over her. She followed her quickly.
“I am going with you Rosamond. Dear, you did not think I should let you go alone.”
A pathetic smile curved Rosamond’s lips. “Very soon I shall have to be alone. But for now—if you will come.”
She went on, walking erectly, with firm, regular steps. Lady Treadstone and Greyson followed, their faces white and frightened. Lady Treadstone rested her hand for a minute within the maid’s.
Two men were standing in the hall, Inspector Church and Marlowe. The light of victory was in the latter’s eyes. At last he had won! The chase had been long and difficult, more than once he had been checkmated, but at last the game was his. He felt no pity for the woman coming down the stairs; to him she was the prey who had escaped him so long, nothing more.
Rosamond’s step did not hesitate or falter, she came straight across the hall to them. “You wish to speak to me, I think?” she said in her clear tones, that now sounded cold, indifferent even.
“We did, madam,” Inspector Church said awkwardly. He felt momentarily abashed. This queenly-looking woman with the weary eyes, the crown of golden hair, was so unlike his preconceived notions of the gamekeeper’s wife for whom they had been looking so long that for the time he felt overwhelmed. He pulled himself together, however, and pulled an official looking paper from his pocket. “I am sorry to say that I am here in the execution of my duty, madam. Rosamond Elizabeth Winter, otherwise Treadstone, I arrest you for the wilful murder of your husband, John Winter, at Carlyn, on May 6th, 19—. And it is my duty to warn you that anything you say in answer to the charge will be taken down in writing, and may be used against you,” he hurried over the words rather, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl’s face.
But Rosamond gave no sign of shrinking or of fear. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And you want me to come with you now. Well, I am ready.” She moved a step nearer the door, while the two men stared at her.
But Lady Treadstone hurried after her. “Child, child, what are you doing? You can’t go like this. And where you go I go, remember that.’’
Rosamond’s face softened momentarily. She touched the elder woman’s hand gently. “No, no, dear, you can’t come with me. Stay here, mother, and some day perhaps I may come back to you.”
“Your father would have gone with you and I am going,” Lady Treadstone repeated firmly, but the tears were trembling in her eyes, she was shaking from head to foot in her agitation.
Inspector Church stepped forward.
“You can’t go with the prisoner, my lady. Of course, if you care to follow you will be able to see her after the charge has been read. In the meantime, my good woman, can’t you get your mistress’s coat and hat?” He addressed himself to Greyson, who was weeping and praying audibly.
Already some knowledge of what was going on has permeated to the servants of the Hold. They were gathering in groups, at the other end of the hall, there was a sound of sobs, and muttered threats from the men. Inspector Church was anxious to get away. As soon as Rosamond’s things had been brought he motioned to her that they were ready to start.
Rosamond glanced round lingeringly as they made their way to the private landing-stage. Was she seeing it all for the last time, she wondered, the peace and beauty of the Rock and the Hold? Was it possible that she was exchanging her ordered life there for the dreary solitude of a prison cell, it might even be for death itself? Her breath caught in a sob as she asked herself the question. Involuntarily she put up her hands to her throat. But the sense of unreality, of which she had been conscious ever since she had seen that the arrest was inevitable clung to her still. She felt as though she was taking part in some pageant or play; she could not realize that she, Rosamond Treadstone, was really in this terrible danger.
On the landing-stage there were more policemen, several boats were moored alongside, another was coming swiftly across the shining water from Porthcawel. But all the attention of Inspector Church and his men was given to their prisoner. Not until the boat had come in alongside, and the three men in her were springing out did they realize that a new element had entered into the situation. Sir Oswald Davenant was the first to land. His whole aspect had altered. A weight of care had rolled off his shoulders and he seemed years younger; his expression was glad and triumphant. Frank Carlyn, and a third man, who bore upon him plainly the stamp of officialdom, followed.
A red flush streaked the prisoner’s white cheeks as she recognized them. Sir Oswald glanced from her to Inspector Church.
“Stop!” he cried in his clear ringing tones. “Inspector, you have made a few mistakes over this miserable business; now you are just about to make another. You—”
“I don’t think so,” the inspector interrupted him. “I am sorry you are here, Sir Oswald Davenant, but I think you will understand that there can be no interference with the course of my duty.”
Sir Oswald laughed as he glanced from him to Marlowe.
“In a short time you will probably be very glad that I came; yes, Mr. Marlowe, once more you have had all your trouble for nothing. While you have been following a false scent I hold in my pocket the confession of the real criminal. Mr. Carlyn and Superintendent Quin from Carlyn can confirm my statement.”
“Impossible!” The inspector was beginning when with a quick exclamation Sir Oswald sprang past him.
The reaction had been too much for Rosamond. The long strain of the past years culminating in this morning’s horror had beaten down even her splendid vitality. As she heard her lover’s words it seemed to her that everything was whirling round her, the glittering sun, the policemen, even Sir Oswald himself. With a low cry she staggered forward and fell unconscious to the ground just as Sir Oswald reached her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“AND THE PRINCE married the Princess with the raven locks, and they lived happy ever afterwards?” Maisie questioned, in her clear, childish treble.
“Yes, I suppose they did,” Rosamond assented with a slow smile.
Maisie clasped her hands. “Oh, you do tell nice stories. Almost as nice as my dear Miss Martin used to.”
Rosamond raised her eyebrows. “Almost, not quite.”
Maisie considered the point for a moment with her head on one side. “Not quite, I think,” she decided at last, loyal to her first friend. “Though yours are very nice too, Miss Treadstone,” she added politely.
“And why are mine not quite as nice?” Rosamond asked teasingly.
Maisie thought a minute. “I think perhaps it is the voice,” she announced at last. “Though you often make me think of her, Miss Treadstone. But Miss Martin had a nice, strong voice, and yours is very weak, so that I have to listen very intently.”
“And don’t you like listening intently?” Rosamond laughed. “Perhaps my voice is weak because I am weak myself, Maisie.”
She certainly looked weak enough for anything as she spoke. She was half-sitting, half-lying in a nest of cushions on the settee in Lady Treadstone’s morning-room at the Hold. She was very thin, her once rounded figure was wasted almost to attenuation, her short hair was curling in re
d gold tendrils all over her head; her face was absolutely colourless, save for the blue half-circles underneath her eyes, but it wore a look of peace and rest such as Elizabeth Martin had never known.
Spring had merged into summer, summer had become autumn, and was rapidly approaching winter, and still Rosamond Treadstone lay ill and prostrate at the Hold. For weeks after she had learned the truth about John Winter’s death she had lain between life and death, and only very slowly had it become apparent that the former was to conquer. But now it seemed as though, having reached a certain point, she had no strength to go farther. Her days were passed in a sort of mental apathy, and her prostration had been so prolonged that the doctors were becoming seriously anxious. Nothing seemed to have the power to rouse her, and it had been Sir Oswald who had suggested sending for Maisie in the hope that the child she loved might have power to interest Rosamond. His plan had proved more successful than he had dared to hope. Rosamond had been unmistakably pleased to see the child, and Maisie charmed with the resemblance she detected to her dear Miss Martin had taken to her at once. Much of her time was spent with Rosamond in the morning-room, and the doctors had been delighted when they learned that her demand for stories had been acceded to. To-day, they were talking of moving their patient to a warmer climate as soon as her strength was a little more maintained. Sir Oswald had his own ideas as to how this was to be effected, but he had said nothing to Rosamond yet.
Though there had naturally been all sorts of rumours, Rosamond Treadstone’s name had been successfully kept out of the papers when the Home Wood mystery had been finally cleared up, and her marriage with Winter had not been made public. Where once his death had been shown to have been the result of an accident, there had been little interest taken in the affair, and already it was becoming forgotten. But this, Rosamond, obsessed as she had been by the thought of the death, could not realize, and she had a morbid fear of being recognized. Only with Maisie did she feel quite safe, and the child’s affection and trust were very soothing.