by Annie Haynes
“Yes,” Judith said quietly.
She let Peggy take her little son from her whilst she set herself to talk with feverish energy to Crasster. Surely, surely he would tell her why Inspector Furnival had wanted him at Abbey Court that morning.
But nothing apparently was farther from Crasster’s intention. He talked lightly and easily on a variety of topics, but the very recollection of Inspector Furnival’s summons might have passed from his mind. At last, when Paul, now growing sleepy, had been replaced in his cot, and they were all seated at the round table in the big dining-room, Judith asked:
“Did your friend, the inspector, want you for anything important this morning, Mr. Crasster?”
She had succeeded in arresting his attention.
“It was rather interesting,” he said slowly, “unusual, perhaps I ought to say. But I rather fancy it is out of my line.”
Peggy smiled at him from her seat opposite.
“Are you talking of your imperative work of this morning, Stephen? Don’t tell me it was nothing you were wanted for after all.”
“No, it wasn’t unnecessary,” Crasster said, his dark face rather grave. “Only I don’t fancy I’m quite so clever as I thought myself, Peggy, I don’t imagine that Furnival found me much good.”
Sir Anthony laughed disagreeably. “I should start from the idea that you can’t trust anyone—that your dearest friend may be deceiving you.”
Crasster looked at him in mild surprise. Carew was behaving rather oddly to-day, he thought, but probably he was not well; he had sent away his soup untasted, he was merely pretending to eat his fish.
“Well, I don’t know that one’s dearest friend would escape if suspicion pointed his way,” Stephen answered slowly. “But what I find so enthralling is the fact that most detective work is of necessity a series of deductions. To reduce this to a science is, of course, our aim, but I must confess that in my case it is beset with difficulties. My deductions have a bad habit of not turning out right,” with a whimsical smile. “You may remember at Eton, Anthony—”
Usually Lady Carew would have found it interesting enough. But to-day it seemed that it would be impossible to sit there quietly to the end of the meal, to take her part as the courteous hostess, while all the time her whole being was seething in a perfect whirl of unrest, of torturing anxiety. It was maddening to know that this dark-faced, pleasant-voiced man, was in possession of what she would have given half the remaining years of her life to learn, and yet he would not speak, she could not make him tell her. Only by a supreme effort did she retain her self-control until the meal was over. Then at the earliest possible moment, with a quick look at Peggy, she rose abruptly.
It was hot in the drawing-room; Judith felt feverish and oppressed with the terrible sense of overhanging calamity. The French window on the balcony stood open. Declining Peggy’s invitation to go up to the nursery for another look at Paul she stepped out.
It was very quiet in the square, only now and again an occasional motor or a private carriage passed. She waited there; the chill of the night air felt pleasant after the fever that was consuming her. Peggy had stolen softly away intent on another visit to her small nephew. Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud, raucous cry coming down Oxford Street. Judith listened to it mechanically, paying scant heed; it was a man crying papers, that was all. As it grew nearer, more coherent, one word penetrated the mists that had gathered over her brain, startled her absorption.
“Murder! Murder!”
She held her breath, she strained her ears; what was he crying? Murder!
“’Orrible murder in a West End flat! ’Orrible murder—”
One of Judith’s hands, went up to her throat, tugged relentlessly at the laces in the front of her gown until the delicate fabric gave way. Steadying herself with the other she leaned over the railings. The man was coming in a direct line with the house now.
“’Orrible murder in a West End flat. Latest details.”
Judith stepped back into the house and rang the bell.
“Get me an evening paper, please, James,” she said when the man appeared. “As quickly as possible. They are calling them outside.”
She constrained herself to take the paper from the salver, she forced herself to wait until the man had left the room before she opened it. Then, she almost tore the pages apart. There was no need to search, for the column she wanted stared her in the face.
MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN A WEST END FLAT
“A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was perpetrated some time last night in a block of flats, comparatively newly built, called Abbey Court, in Leinster Avenue. The victim was a man who was known to the agent as Mr. C. Warden. He had taken the flat only a week ago and little or nothing was known of him. He is described by the porter as a quiet, inoffensive gentleman, giving no trouble and having no visitors. He was in the habit of having his breakfast sent up to him, the rest of his meals he took out. This morning the porter went up with his tray as usual, but was unable to make Mr. Warden hear. The porter waited a while and tried again. Then he ascertained that the electric light within the flat was still switched on; this made him fear that possibly Mr. Warden had been taken ill, with the result that he went round to the agents, and had the door broken open.
Mr. Warden was discovered in his sitting-room lying dead upon the floor in a pool of blood. Dr. Wilkinson of St. Mary’s Street who was quickly upon the scene, gave it as his opinion that the unfortunate man had been shot from behind, at close range, and that the shot had entered at the back of the left ear, and, travelling in a transverse direction, had severed the carotid artery, thus accounting for the excessive hemorrhage. Dr. Wilkinson stated that death had probably taken place a couple of hours, at least, before midnight, and that it could not possibly have been self-inflicted. The revolver with which presumably the fatal shot was fired was discovered in the little dining-room, which was separated only by curtains from the room in which the deceased was found. It is hoped that the weapon may prove valuable as a means of identifying the assassin.
A curious feature in the affair is the fact that the porter states that, last night, for the first time, he took up a visitor to Mr. Warden’s rooms in the lift—a lady wearing a long cloak and thickly veiled. He noticed her particularly, first because she was the only visitor who had asked to be taken up to No. 42; secondly, because she was so muffled up that it struck him she did not wish to be seen. A hand-painted fan was found on the floor, partly underneath the body, which is supposed to have been left by this mysterious visitor, and which may ultimately prove a valuable clue. Every effort is being made to discover the identity of Mr. Warden’s visitor. She is described by Jenkins, the porter, as being tall and slender, with fair hair. Her features he could not see plainly as she had a thick veil twisted round her hat and face. She had a low, pleasant voice and he says was distinctly a lady. It was after nine o’clock when he took her up. He had no idea when she came down as she did not use the lift. Inquiries with a view to discovering her identity are being diligently prosecuted, and the police are of opinion that, with the clues at their disposal, this will be a matter of small difficulty.”
Judith read it through without moving. Then she looked at it again. The printed type seemed to dance up and down before her eyes. With a gesture of despair she let the paper slip to the ground, walked over to the mantelpiece and leaned against the high shelf.
“My God!” she breathed, “My God!”
It seemed to her that the description cried aloud that it was she, Judith Carew, who had been in Warden’s flat. Reading between the lines it was perfectly obvious that it was she who was suspected of having caused his death. They were diligently prosecuting the search for her; they expected with the clues at their disposal to find her quickly.
She quivered from head to foot in one long drawn out sob of agony. What was she to do? Where in heaven or earth was there any help for her? She dared not take the course that it seemed to her any innocent woman o
ught to take, she dared not go to the police and tell them her story. Her hands were tied and bound. Appearances were too terribly against her. The dead man had been shot with the revolver she herself had taken to his rooms; she had the strongest possible motive for desiring his death. She shivered and cowered against the wall as she asked herself how long it would be before they found her.
The sound of the opening door made her start with a cry of terror. She looked across, half expecting to see the police come to arrest her, but it was only Peggy who stood in the doorway, her eyes laughing as she glanced behind her.
The two men followed. Judith heard Anthony’s voice; she tried desperately to recover herself, to regain her shattered self-control. She thrust the paper beneath a pile of books and went forward.
“The carriage will not be here for half an hour, Mr. Crasster. What shall we do to amuse you till then?”
“Peggy shall give us a song,” Crasster suggested.
The girl made a little face at him. “Not now, sir, I’m going on the balcony,” catching up a fleecy wrap and drawing it over her pretty bare shoulders as she stepped out.
Stephen held back the curtains for Lady Carew.
After a moment’s hesitation Judith followed. As Crasster placed a chair for her, her ear caught the sound of a measured footstep below. She touched Peggy’s arm. “Who—what is that, Peggy?”
The girl looked a little surprised as she leaned forward.
“Only a policeman.”
“Only a policeman!” Judith’s heart contracted as she sank into her chair, her fears rushed over her, multiplied a thousandfold. Why, oh why had she been such a fool as to come out, to sit here where it would be so easy for her to be seen—to be identified.
She got up jerkily. “After all, I don’t think I will stay here,” she said unsteadily. “I want to speak to Anthony—to consult him—”
She stepped back quickly. Sir Anthony stood in the inner drawing-room; she heard a rustle, and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of alarm as she saw that he had the evening paper in his hand.
His back was towards her, but his face was reflected in the opposite mirror. Judith saw that he was studying something intently, that his dark overhanging brows were drawn together in a heavy frown.
CHAPTER VII
There is no doubt that Lady Carew’s nerves are overstrained. The prevailing disease of our twentieth century, Sir Anthony!”
Sir Anthony Carew bowed. His dark face was unsmiling.
Judith, looking wan and fragile in her blue linen gown, was sitting in a big easy chair near the window.
Dr. Martin looked at her again. “The remedy is quite simple. Plenty of fresh air, rest and quiet. No need of drugs, though I will give you a simple prescription for the sleeplessness. If you will not think me too cruel, Lady Carew, I must say that the very best thing for you would be to leave London, to go into the country, and do nothing but rest and laze.”
A little wave of colour swept over Judith’s pale cheeks. She sat up in her chair and looked at Anthony wistfully.
“Oh, I should love to go into the country, to go back to Heron’s Carew with nobody but the boy and you, Anthony. Oh, do let us go to Heron’s Carew,” with a little sob.
“Of course we will go to Heron’s Carew, if Dr. Martin thinks it advisable,” Sir Anthony said slowly. “Or would a voyage—sea air…?”
Dr. Martin regarded him benevolently over his pince-nez.
“Ah, that may come later. For the present I think Heron’s Carew the very best possible suggestion. And remember, Lady Carew,” wagging a fat playful forefinger at her, “no house parties, no bridge. A little tennis if you like when you are stronger, but for the present just absolute quiet—a deck chair on the lawn, and Master Paul for your companion, and in a very short time I shall expect to hear that all your roses have returned, that Sir Anthony is quite satisfied with your progress, I shall indeed.”
“Yes, yes. I am sure it will do me good,” Judith said feverishly. “I love every stone of Heron’s Carew, only, Anthony,” her face clouded, “what of Peggy? Your mother is not strong enough—”
“Oh, Peggy will be all right,” Carew said with a certain carelessness. “As a matter of fact I have already written to Alethea about her, she is coming up to town next week and she will be only too pleased to take Peggy about.”
“You have written,” Judith said with a puzzled look.
“The very best thing, my dear lady,” Dr. Martin interrupted briskly. “Lady Leominster will look after Miss Carew and you will go to Heron’s Carew in search of health. Now, that is all settled, and Sir Anthony will feel more comfortable about you.”
When he left the room, shortly afterwards, Sir Anthony accompanied him and Judith was left alone.
The idea of leaving London, of returning to Heron’s Carew, had brought a transient flush to her cheeks, a brightness which faded all too soon from her eyes. For some time she waited expecting her husband’s return. The day was warm, the wind was blowing from the south, it fanned her cheeks, it brought in the scent of the flowering plants in the balcony.
More than a fortnight had elapsed since that terrible night in the Abbey Court flat; a fortnight which had held for Judith every species of imaginable dread. Every day the papers had made some mention of the mysterious murder; the inquest, after the first sitting, had been adjourned for a fortnight. To-day there had been hints that to-morrow the police would be in a position to place some important evidence before the coroner and the jury. There had been all sorts of rumours that Stanmore’s mysterious visitor had been traced, that she was an actress, a noted singer, a society beauty. In her terror Judith had pleaded illness, she had broken all her engagements, she had refused to go out of doors, everywhere, anywhere, she might be recognized!
One feature of the affair puzzled her considerably; so far, the man she met on the stairs had not been mentioned. Yet surely he must have come forward, he must have told the police what he knew of Cyril Stanmore, told them that the mysterious visitor, whose identity was arousing so much curiosity was Cyril Stanmore’s wife.
Nothing had leaked out so far with regard to Stanmore’s identity. Why should he have taken the flat in the name of Warden, Judith could not imagine, save that with her knowledge of the man she was assured that his silence hid nothing creditable.
It had been stated in one report Judith had seen that the deceased man had left no papers, no valuables, nothing to prove his identity or to show where his relatives could be found, neither had his relatives been forthcoming.
But the man that Judith had met on the stairs knew as much as, or more than, she did herself of Cyril Stanmore’s history. How soon would he speak or had he spoken already?
Down below in the Square people were passing backwards and forwards; a couple of men were lounging against the railings opposite. Judith’s gaze fell upon them and with a quick movement of alarm she drew back into the shadow of the curtains. It might be that they were waiting, hoping to see her, to identify her.
A great longing for the quietness and the seclusion of Heron’s Carew came upon her; there, in the spacious gardens she would at least be free from prying eyes. She listened eagerly for Anthony’s return; she would beg him to make arrangements to go down to Heron’s Carew at once—to-morrow, or the next day, surely it would be possible.
As she waited she heard the man below whistling for a taxi. She peered out through the pattern of the lace curtain as it drove off. Sir Anthony was the only occupant; his face was grave, even sombre, as she caught a passing glimpse. Judith looked after him, vaguely puzzled. He had gone out after hearing the doctor’s report without coming back to speak to her. Then for a moment she roused herself to a fuller consciousness. What was amiss with Anthony? His manner to her, which had remained as lover-like for the two years of their married life as during the brief intoxicating period of their engagement, had changed in this terrible fortnight to one of cold reserve. Was it possible that he had recognized her descripti
on, that he had guessed? The very thought drove every drop of blood from her cheeks, her lips; set her heart beating in great suffocating throbs. She hardly realized how long she had been crouching there behind the curtains, shivering with sickly dread at the bare notion of this new possibility, when another thought struck her. If they were to go down to Heron’s Carew at once, there was something she must do. She pulled herself up, holding by the table at her side. It was curious how her physical strength had deserted her.
At last, however, she made her way feebly to the bell, and rang it. Célestine made her appearance with such speed as to suggest that she had been remaining purposely close at hand.
“But miladi is ill,” she said, as she saw her mistress’s ghastly face. “Miladi is surely faint. If she will let me get a glass of Sir Anthony’s good wine—?”
“No! I want nothing.” Judith held up her hand. “But I am cold. It is possible I have taken a chill. Will you have the fire made up in my room? I shall be coming up directly. I always fancy I rest on the couch there better than anywhere.”
“It is one beautiful couch,” Célestine assented, her sharp little black eyes scanning Lady Carew’s face attentively. “And of course there is already a fire, miladi. Since miladi has not been so well I have kept one there every day, since it might be that at any time she might need it.”
“That is right,” Judith laid her head back on her chair. “I will come up in a few minutes then.”
“Will miladi let me help her?” Célestine’s voice and manner were respectfully sympathetic.
But Judith shook her head. “No! no! I will come presently.”
She waited a little while gathering her strength together, then she made her way upstairs slowly.
Célestine was waiting for her. The couch was drawn up as her mistress liked it, but Lady Carew looked disappointedly at the fire. “I told you I wanted a good fire, Célestine, a large fire, I am cold.”