by Annie Haynes
“But you are too good, monsieur; it is too exquisite, too lovely for me.”
“I don’t think so!” Lennox said bluntly, laying the Marie Antoinette fan back in the box.
The church clock chimed the hour. He looked up. “How the time has flown, to be sure!”
Célestine started in dismay. “And I—miladi will be wanting me. You must be a magician, monsieur; you make me forget everything.” She rose quickly.
Lennox fastened up his box and took it back to the house, then he caught up the maid before she reached the gate.
They walked back to the wood together, Célestine keeping up a voluble conversation in her broken English, Lennox for the most part listening with a smile that showed him to be well satisfied with his companion.
When they had parted, and he turned back, he found himself confronted by a tall broad-shouldered figure that seemed to rise up suddenly behind. A deep voice said:
“Well, inspector.”
“Lennox, if you please, Mr. Crasster, sir.” He glanced round. “One never knows who may be within hearing.”
“Lady Carew’s French maid, for example,” Stephen said deliberately. “What do you imagine Mrs.—er—Lennox would say if she could see you now, my good friend?”
Mr. Lennox laughed sheepishly as he drew his beard through his fingers. “She has had to get used to it, sir, in the way of—”
“In the way of business,” Crasster finished. “But surely that can’t lead to Lady Carew’s maid?”
Lennox coughed. “Not directly, sir; I can’t say it does. But—well, it is a matter I should like to consult you about if you could spare me a few minutes, say, to-morrow or the next day.”
CHAPTER XVIII
“How awfully good of you to come!” Lady Palmer went forward with outstretched hands. “I hardly dared to expect you, and yet there was no one else I could appeal to, and I stood so sorely in need of help. What is a poor little woman like me to do with all the lawyers against one?”
Sir Anthony Carew took her hands in some embarrassment. “Ah, well, you know, Sybil, that anything I can do to help you—”
“You are always more than kind,” Lady Palmer said gratefully as she sank into one of the big easy chairs by the window, and motioned him to the other.
She had left the Wiltons rather suddenly in the end, summoned up to town to a conference with her lawyers, and, since interviews seemed inevitable, she had decided to take a suite of rooms at the Imperial Hotel for a week or two until matters were more settled. An urgent appeal from her for personal help had coincided with a growing restlessness on Sir Anthony’s part, and he had hurried up to town for a week-end, on the pretext of giving her counsel.
As he sat there, however, his thoughts were not with Lady Palmer, and the thousand and one airs and graces she was assuming for his benefit, they were back at Heron’s Carew with Judith.
He could not but be aware that, as far as anything she had yet related, there seemed but scant need for Sybil to have summoned him to London, but she spoke as if an interview with her lawyer were imperative.
He had been there perhaps half an hour when the door of the outer room sprang open, and voices became audible outside. Lady Palmer sprang to her feet.
“I told them that I was not at home, that I could not see anyone. Oh”—after listening a moment—“I had quite forgotten. It is Charlotte. She did speak of coming in, and I did not stop her, for I knew it would be such a pleasure to her to see you again. And, really, she has such a head for business—so unlike poor little me.”
Surely never two sisters were more unlike, Mrs. Dawson was tall, sinuous-looking, with a complexion so dark as to suggest a mixture of foreign blood, and curious light eyes that contrasted oddly with her black hair and swarthy skin.
She came into the room now with her graceful languid air, and to Sir Anthony’s annoyance he saw that she was followed by another visitor, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant rosy face, which somehow gave him a strange sense of familiarity.
Mrs. Dawson kissed her sister affectionately. “I have only a few minutes to spare, Sybil, for I am on my way to a meeting at the St. Clery Nertells’. Mrs. Rankin is going with me, so I brought her in. You remember her, don’t you? But who is this?” gazing at Sir Anthony with wide-open eyes. “Not—surely not—Anthony Carew?”
“Am I so much altered?” Carew asked, smiling in spite of himself. “I should have known you anywhere, Charlotte.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Dawson replied, sitting down and looking at him. “You are older of course, we all are,” with an affected little laugh. “But you look troubled, worried—your very eyes are altered—anxious.”
“An active imagination,” Sir Anthony laughed. “What should I have to worry me?”
“Indeed, I don’t know,” Mrs. Dawson answered with a little sigh, as if giving up the subject. “You have everything a man can have, it seems to me—a beautiful home, a large income, a lovely wife. Oh, how strange that you should be here to-day, and that I should happen to bring Mrs. Rankin in.”
“Why strange?” Sir Anthony inquired in his leisurely fashion.
Mrs. Dawson looked a little embarrassed.
“Oh, it is only that Mrs. Rankin is an old friend of your wife’s. But perhaps I ought not to have spoken,” as Sir Anthony looked surprised, and a decided shade of annoyance crossed Mrs. Rankin’s pleasant face.
“A friend of my wife’s,” Sir Anthony repeated in a puzzled tone, then his face cleared. “Why, that is how it is your face seemed familiar to me directly I saw it. I have seen your photograph in Judith’s album. Of course; now I remember, my wife was with you before she came to Heron’s Carew, wasn’t she?”
Mrs. Rankin’s pleasant comely face was still darkened by vexation. She made an obvious effort to respond to Sir Anthony’s smile.
“Yes, Lady Carew was with us for two years; we were all exceedingly fond of her,” she said, a certain reserve apparent in her tone.
“I am sure you must have been,” Lady Palmer chimed in. “I assure you when your daughter found that Lady Carew was ill; and unable to give away the prizes at the Wembley Show, she was so frightfully disappointed that I had hard work to console her.”
“What?” Sir Anthony looked across in some surprise. “Is it possible that Miss Rankin was at Wembley Show? Why didn’t she come over to Heron’s Carew? I am sure my wife would have been delighted to see her.”
“Silly child, so I told her,” Lady Palmer agreed.
“Oh, Sophie was not in the neighbourhood very long,” Mrs. Rankin said hurriedly. “She stayed for a few days at Marchfield Vicarage with the Canon’s sister, but I know she had a good many engagements. I dare say she had no time to get over to Heron’s Carew, kind of you as it is to think of it, Sir Anthony. Another time perhaps—”
“Another time she must certainly come,” Sir Anthony said decidedly. “You must let us know when she is in the neighbourhood, please, Mrs. Rankin.”
“Thank you, you are very kind,” Mrs. Rankin returned in a distinctly non-committal tone.
“Oh, dear Mrs. Rankin, I don’t think it was altogether want of time,” Lady Palmer said plaintively. “I gathered from Miss Rankin that you had told her she was not to go to Heron’s Carew unless Judith spoke to her first, or something of that sort. That was why the poor child was so disappointed not to see her at the show.”
It did not escape Lady Palmer’s eyes that as she spoke one of Mrs. Rankin’s black-gloved hands suddenly tightened itself upon the arm of her chair, that there was a certain momentary compression of her lips.
She did not answer for a moment then she looked at Sir Anthony, a lurking shadow in her blue eyes, though her lips were smiling. “As you have said so much, Lady Palmer, I think I must explain. To tell the truth, though perhaps I ought not to say it, we have felt a little hurt, both Canon Rankin and myself, that Lady Carew has taken absolutely no notice of us since her marriage. I would not have Sophie thrusting herself upon her, and t
herefore I told Mrs. May that, much as Sophie might wish it, I would rather she did not go over.”
Sir Anthony looked embarrassed. “I am sure there is some mistake, probably a letter has miscarried, or Judith may have called, and your servants may have forgotten to tell you. In any case I am sure Judith would never forget her old friends; it would not be like her. I have always heard her speak of your family in terms of warm affection, and I am sure she will be delighted to hear I have met you, and will look forward to renewing your acquaintance.”
“You are very kind. I think myself it is probable that there is some mistake,” Mrs. Rankin returned. There was a slight relaxing of her features, she drew a tiny breath of relief, and put her handkerchief to her lips for a moment, as Sir Anthony turned to speak to Mrs. Dawson.
Lady Palmer crossed over and took the chair next Mrs. Rankin, her soft black gown falling in graceful folds round her slim figure. “I want your girl to dine with me one day this week,” she began in her sweet caressing tone. “I have a young cousin in town, and though of course I can’t do any real entertaining just now I thought I might give the two a little dinner, and perhaps some music afterwards. Your girl sings, doesn’t she?”
“In an amateurish way; still, it is useful in the parish sometimes,” Mrs. Rankin replied.
Lady Palmer’s eyes watched her from beneath their lids. What was it the woman was afraid of, she asked herself. What brought that look of being on the defensive on her face directly Judith’s name was mentioned? Why did she turn pale and shiver when Sir Anthony was speaking to her?
She leaned forward a little in her chair. “I am going to try and make Miss Rankin as fond of me as she is of my cousin, Lady Carew.”
Mrs. Rankin’s face stiffened instantly. “It is exceedingly kind of you.”
“Now which day can she come?” said Lady Palmer. “Let me see—Thursday or Friday will suit me best. Which would she prefer, do you think?”
Mrs. Rankin shook her head. “I am afraid neither day is possible. On Thursday we are all dining out, and on Friday she is having a friend from the country to spend the day with her.”
Lady Palmer’s eyes narrowed. “Next week then. Of course I am not going out now, so I am comparatively free. Which day shall we say?”
“Oh, next week?” Mrs. Rankin was sitting bolt upright now, her hands in their black kid gloves were folded in her lap. “Next week,” she went on, “Sophie will be away from home, I am sorry to say, Lady Palmer. She is going down to stay with some cousins in the Isle of Wight.”
“I am so sorry,” Lady Palmer said gently, as Mrs. Dawson rose, and Mrs. Rankin, with an air of relief, followed her example. “Well, I must hope to be more fortunate another time.” She gave Mrs. Rankin one of her flashing smiles, as she spoke.
The smile was still lingering round her lips when, Sir Anthony having escorted the visitors to their carriage, she lay back in her chair and awaited his return. “So Sophie knows,” she murmured beneath her breath. “Sophie knows at least enough to put me on the track. Ah, well! I think I shall manage to have an interview with Sophie before very long, and then Lady Carew may look out.”
CHAPTER XIX
“So—so I am disappointed!” Peggy ended with a little shiver in her voice.
Stephen Crasster, walking by her side down the Dower House drive, set his teeth together for an instant before he turned and looked down at her, his features relaxing.
“Why are you disappointed, Peggy?”
“I have told you,” Peggy answered, her eyes downcast, her face looking mutinous. “I wanted you and Lorrimer to be friends—real friends!”
There was a smile in Stephen’s kind eyes as he glanced at the long upcurled lashes, at the pretty, wilful mouth.
“Won’t you bring Lord Chesterham to lunch with me at Talgarth to-morrow?”
Peggy clapped her hands childishly, her small face aglow, her vexation for the time being forgotten.
“I should love to. I have been wanting to see what you have been doing at Talgarth so much. I thought it was so funny you didn’t ask me.”
“Did you?” Stephen questioned quietly. “Well, you must come to-morrow, Peggy, you and Chesterham. I wanted Talgarth to be in apple-pie order before you saw it. Certainly to-morrow you will have to make allowances.”
“That will be ever so much more fun,” Peggy returned rapturously. “I don’t think I like places in apple-pie order. Oh!”—a rich blush mantling her cheeks, as a motor turned in at the lodge gates. “Why I believe this is—”
“So do I,” returned Stephen with a whimsical half smile.
But she was looking at the motor; her eyes were smiling at the man in the driver’s seat. She hardly heard Stephen’s hurried apology for a leave-taking, hardly noticed that he had left her, striding off to the side gate which was nearest to Carew village. Chesterham pulled up the car and jumped out.
“Will you come for a spin, sweetheart? What do you think of the car? Isn’t she a beauty, goes like a bird—sixty miles an hour, when the police are not about.”
Peggy laughed. “I should love a ride, Lorrimer; will you take me over to Talgarth to lunch to-morrow?”
“Talgarth!” His face clouded over. “That is that fellow Crasster’s place, isn’t it? Why do you want to go there?”
“Because it is Stephen’s place,” Peggy said, with an uplifting of her brows. “Don’t you realize that he is a great friend of mine, Lorrimer?”
“Friend!” Chesterham laughed out, though his eyes were glittering evilly. “I don’t think friendship was exactly the gift Mr. Stephen Crasster wanted from you, Peggy.”
“What do you mean?” She looked up at him with big, startled eyes, in which there lay a kind of wakening consciousness. “Stephen was my friend always.”
“You were blind, child,” Chesterham said with a touch of roughness that Peggy had never heard in his tone before. “The man is in love with you, it is easy to see that. And you belong to me, I cannot allow this walking and talking with him.”
He drew her arm through his and led her across the grass to the shrubbery, leaving the car to the chauffeur.
“You can’t allow me to talk to Stephen!” Peggy’s fugitive colour was coming and going. Lorrimer was looking unlike himself to-day, she thought; he was flushed, his eyes were shining. “Don’t you know that Stephen has been my friend all my life, Lorrimer? As for what you say it is nonsense—nonsense,” vehemently as if trying to convince herself. “He is my friend.”
“Ah, well, I am going to be your friend in the future!” Chesterham said masterfully, gazing down at her. They were out of sight of every one now, screened from the house by the belt of rhododendrons that bordered the shrubbery. He clipped his arm round her and caught her to him with a sudden warmth that half alarmed the girl. “You are mine, and I cannot spare one little bit of you, one iota of your time or thought to Crasster!” he declared vehemently, punctuating his words with hot, passionate kisses.
Half frightened, wholly indignant at his roughness, Peggy managed to free herself at last.
“How dare you?” she demanded, her face scarlet, tears of anger and humiliation standing in her eyes. “How dare you?”
“How dare I?” Chesterham laughed aloud. His bronzed face had distinctly deepened in hue, his blue eyes were gleaming oddly. “Do you think I am made of milk and water, like your friend Stephen Crasster? No! No! I am flesh and blood, Peggy, and you are most adorably pretty.” He moved towards her as though to take her in his arms again.
Swift as lightning Peggy eluded him, ran past him down the path. She had never seen Chesterham quite like this before. His words about Stephen Crasster had startled and shocked her; his kisses, his passion, had filled her with a sense of humiliation. In a double sense he was tearing the veil from her eyes.
When Chesterham, giving up his undignified pursuit, stepped quietly into the drive, she was scudding across the little stretch of lawn that lay between the shrubbery and the house. He shrugged his shoulders
and his face was black with anger as he followed slowly.
Meanwhile, Crasster, absorbed in meditations that were none of the pleasantest, was making his way down the road to Carew village. At the top of the street near the Carew Arms, he nearly collided with no less a person than Mr. Lennox.
“The very person I was wishing to see,” he exclaimed as he stopped. “I was thinking of calling in at the Carew Arms. If you have nothing better to do this evening come in and have a taste of bachelor fare with me at Talgarth. I met with a curious case the other day that I should like to talk over with you.”
Mr. Lennox paused. “You are very kind, sir. But;” with a certain hesitancy in his manner, “I am afraid that this evening it is impossible. I have an engagement—and, as a matter of fact, I am expecting some important news.”
Crasster looked disappointed. “I am sorry, I am getting tired of lonely evenings, I am going back to town next week.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.” The detective took rapid counsel with himself. “I was wishing to ask your advice about something, sir. If you have nothing to do this morning, maybe you would step into my rooms at the Carew Arms.”
Crasster hesitated a moment, then he turned to Lennox. “I don’t mind if I do. Although,” he said, “it doesn’t look as if I should be much help to you, Mr. Lennox.”
“Oh, I think you will, sir,” the other returned confidently as he led the way to his private room at the Carew Arms.”
The detective’s room was a very pleasant one overlooking the garden, and with a capital view of the arbour outside. Two high-backed wooden arm-chairs stood in the window, and Lennox drew one forward.
Please to take a seat, sir. I know you have been wondering what brought me down here, sir.
Crasster laughed. “Well, I must acknowledge to a little natural curiosity. A prolonged residence at the Carew Arms seemed hardly in keeping with what one expects of the best-known of modern detectives. One wouldn’t expect to find any very interesting criminals in Carew village.”