by Molly Thynne
It was owing partly, no doubt, to the fact that she was tired and bored with waiting and that she welcomed any incident, no matter how puerile, which might serve to divert her attention, that the movements of these shadowy figures remained so clearly in her mind. Also her own desire to remain unobserved would render her specially sensitive to anything furtive in the actions of others. The fact remains that, later, she was able to give a fairly accurate account of the times at which these people, whose appearance she could not even describe, had gone in and out of Romney Chambers between the hours of six-thirty and seven-five. The entrance of one, the third and last, she was able to place to a minute, for the church clock had just struck seven when she saw the figure of a woman—a girl, judging by the lithe freedom with which she moved—turn the corner, pass down the street, and enter Romney Chambers.
From then onwards, any one who went into the building did so without her knowledge. For, tired of waiting, she strolled to the end of the street, still taking pains not to linger within the radius of the light of the street lamps.
It was close on half-past seven when one of the two people for whom she had been waiting swung round the corner and passed her, walking so quickly that she almost failed to recognize him.
With a low cry that brought him to a standstill she hurried up to him and gripped his arm.
CHAPTER II
Romney Chambers was a less imposing edifice than its name suggested, and, in fact, cut a poor figure compared with the row of majestic “mansions” which faced it on the other side of the road. These, equipped with lifts and uniformed hall porters, were the real thing, as their rents testified, whereas the origin of Romney Chambers was written all over its unassuming frontage. Originally one of those unwieldy large houses which spring up sometimes in unfashionable neighbourhoods, it had stood unlet for several years after the war. Then an enterprising builder had seen its possibilities, bought it from its relieved owner at a price which, only a few years before, would have been considered exorbitant, and converted its four stories into four passably convenient flats. In the basement he had installed a caretaker and his wife, the former acting as a sort of agent and rent-collector for this and other property he had acquired in the neighbourhood, while his wife “did for” such of the tenants as cared to avail themselves of her services. The rents were moderate, as rents go, and the position not inconvenient, King’s Road, Chelsea, running across one end of the street and Fulham Road across the other. The erection of the row of mansions opposite Romney Chambers had served to lift Shorncliffe Street out of its original squalor, and for a road lying between two main thoroughfares, it was very little troubled with traffic.
On the whole the house provided comfortable and sufficiently reasonable quarters for people who were willing to forgo the conveniences of lifts and elaborately-appointed bathrooms, with the result that the Romney Chambers flats seldom changed hands, and their tenants were perhaps on more friendly terms and knew more about each other’s movements than would have been the case in a more pretentious type of building.
Thus it was that when Everard Webb, the tenant of the ground-floor flat, having addressed and stuck down the last of a neat pile of envelopes, discovered that he had run out of stamps, his thoughts naturally turned to Johnson, old Sir Adam Braid’s man, who invariably left the flats punctually at six-thirty to fetch his supper beer. If he could catch him on his way out, Johnson, he knew, would be willing to drop into the post office and see to the stamping and posting of the letters.
He looked at his watch and realized, to his annoyance, that he was too late. Johnson must have left five minutes ago.
Gathering his letters together he rose from his chair.
“Bella!” he called.
A plump, middle-aged lady appeared in the doorway. She also carried a pile of letters in her hand.
“You might put these with yours,” she began, “and, if you’ve got a stamp, I’ll write to Ellen. I’ve just used my last.”
Her brother groaned.
“I was going to ask if you’d got any,” he said. “I’ve missed Johnson. Now I suppose I shall have to go all the way to the post office.”
“Not with that throat of yours,” she answered decisively. “You ought not to have gone to the office at all to-day. Surely somebody in the building has got some stamps.”
Webb considered the matter.
“Dr. Gilroy won’t be back for some time yet, and I don’t particularly want to ask a favour of the Smiths. A pity they ever came here. Not the sort of people we’ve been accustomed to in the Chambers at all.”
She nodded eagerly. They were born gossips, these two.
“There have been one or two little things I’ve noticed about her,” she said vaguely. “Mrs. Adams tells me that Adams isn’t very satisfied about them either. I shouldn’t wonder if he spoke to the landlord. After all, as caretaker, he’s responsible, in a way.”
“That leaves Sir Adam,” said her brother thoughtfully. “Unless I wait till Johnson comes back. And the worst of Sir Adam is that you never know where you are with him. Last time I saw him he was positively affable; but he’s capable—quite capable—of biting my head off if he’s in the mood.”
Miss Webb glanced apprehensively at her brother’s small, tidy features. It seemed almost as if she were taking Sir Adam’s cannibalistic propensities literally.
“Then wait till Johnson comes back,” she suggested. “He’s never more than half an hour.”
Webb hesitated. The brother and sister seldom made any move, even of the most trivial importance, without giving it what they called “due consideration.”
“On the other hand,” he said, “if Johnson hasn’t got any stamps he may have to go out for them, and apart from the fact that I very much dislike making use of another man’s servant, the post office may be shut by then.”
“Then I should just run up and ask Sir Adam. After all, he may be in one of his pleasanter moods.”
Webb rose.
“I think I’ll risk it,” he decided. “Yes, I think I’ll risk it.”
He went out, leaving his own flat door open behind him, and trotted up the stairs to the next landing.
Outside Sir Adam Braid’s flat he hesitated. A timid, peace-loving little man, he particularly disliked what he called “unpleasantnesses,” and there was no doubt that Sir Adam could be extremely unpleasant when he chose.
Then his ear caught the sound of a man’s voice, Sir Adam’s presumably, judging by its acerbity, coming from the other side of the door of the flat.
He was on the point of retreat, reflecting that it would be awkward to break in on the old man if he were entertaining a guest. Then his native curiosity overcame his prudence. After all, it would be interesting to see Sir Adam’s visitor, and it would give him something to impart to his sister on his return to his own flat.
He pushed the bell tentatively and waited.
No notice was taken of his summons. Instead, Sir Adam continued to entertain his guest in a voice that increased in volume each moment. Evidently he was working himself into one of his frequent rages, and Webb’s hand, raised to ring again, fell to his side. This was no moment in which to disturb the old man. He was about to turn away and descend the stairs when his curiosity was further aroused by the sound of a second voice, as violent in its way as that which had preceded it, but pitched on a higher note. Apparently Sir Adam, for once, was getting as good as he gave. Webb listened eagerly. Here was a situation after Bella’s own heart, for Sir Adam’s visitor, with whom he was apparently having an appalling row, was a woman!
Webb waited, entranced. He could not distinguish what the woman was saying, and concluded that the disputants were in Braid’s study, probably with the door open. He waited until the woman’s voice faltered and dissolved into hysterical sobbing, then, becoming suddenly aware of his own undignified position, turned and made his way hastily downstairs.
As he entered his own flat he looked at his watch. It was just on six-fif
ty-five, and Johnson, he knew, usually returned punctually on the stroke of seven.
He was standing in the window of his sitting-room, listening to his sister’s interested comments on the little drama he had surprised, when he saw Sir Adam’s man coming down the road. He consulted his watch again.
“Johnson’s late,” he said. “It’s close on ten past seven. The post office will be shut.”
“Not the one in Fulham Road,” his sister reminded him. “I daresay he won’t mind running round there, if you ask him. I wonder if he knows who the lady is with Sir Adam? She may have come before he left. You might try, delicately, to find out, but don’t let him think we’re asking out of curiosity.”
Webb nodded as he hurried to the door. He had every intention of pumping Johnson on his own account.
He caught him in the hall just as he entered the main door. It stood open, as usual, and Webb shivered as the cold air struck him. He proffered his request. Johnson proved only too ready to oblige.
“I’ve a couple of shillings worth upstairs, sir,” he said—“if you’ll wait a moment.”
But Webb was not going to miss the opportunity of a word with Sir Adam’s man.
“I’ll go with you,” he volunteered. “It’ll save your coming down again. I’d better wait on the landing, though. Your master seems to have a visitor.”
Johnson, who had reached the foot of the stairs, stopped dead and stared at him.
“A visitor, sir? He was alone when I went out.”
“He’s got a lady with him now, at any rate. I went up just now to ask if he could oblige me with a stamp and I could hear him, ah, talking to her, so I decided not to disturb him.”
Johnson stood gazing at him, the light from the hall lamp overhead shining full on his face. It struck Webb, for the first time, what a pasty, unhealthy colour the man had. No doubt his life with the cantankerous old man was not a bed of roses.
“As a matter of fact,” he explained, his voice sinking to a significant whisper, “I could not help hearing. I’m afraid they were having something of an argument and their voices were a good deal raised. I think the lady must have said something to upset Sir Adam.”
Johnson’s hand jerked suddenly, and the beer he was carrying slopped over the edge of the jug and ran down the side on to his coat. His astonished gaze was on Webb’s face.
“There was no lady there when I went out,” he said incredulously. “Are you sure you weren’t mistaken, sir?”
“Certain. It was a lady’s voice, and she seemed, well, considerably upset. Knowing that Sir Adam can be a little hasty at times, I thought it better to come away.”
Without another word Johnson turned and mounted the stairs, Webb following close on his heels. Outside the door of Sir Adam’s flat they paused and listened, but they could hear nothing.
“She may have left while I was downstairs waiting for you,” suggested Webb.
Johnson took a latchkey from his pocket and let himself into the flat.
“If you’ll wait a minute, sir, I’ll fetch the stamps,” he said—“unless you’ll step in and see Sir Adam?”
Webb declined hastily. After what he had heard through the door he had no desire to meet the old man.
He watched Johnson go down the passage to his room. Except for the sound of his discreet movements the flat was silent as the grave. Evidently the visitor had departed. From where Webb stood he had a view of the entire length of the passage, which ran through the centre of the flat, and could see Johnson emerge from his room with the stamps in his hand. To reach Webb he had to pass his master’s bedroom, and the little man, waiting rather nervously on the threshold, saw him turn his head and glance casually in at the open door as he went by.
After that things happened so swiftly that Webb was never quite sure of their exact sequence.
It began with a startled cry from Johnson, who swung round and darted into the bedroom, only to reappear immediately. Whether Johnson called him, or whether his own movement was instinctive, Webb could never afterwards remember, but, a second later, he found himself standing in the doorway of Sir Adam’s bedroom, his heart beating sickeningly somewhere in the region of his throat and his eyes riveted on the ghastly face of the old man, who lay on the floor, half-way between the bed and the fireplace.
Johnson was already kneeling by his master, staring stupidly at his own hand, which, a second before, had lain on the old man’s shoulder. It was wet and sticky with blood.
Webb made an effort to speak, but no sound came. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“Is—is he dead?” he whispered, though instinct told him the question was futile.
Johnson nodded. He was trying to get his handkerchief out of his pocket with his left hand, the right, with its horrible red stain, held stiffly in front of him.
Webb, in spite of his curiosity, was seized with an intense desire to get away from this room.
“I—I’d better fetch some one—” he began uncertainly, turning towards the front door.
Johnson rose and came towards him. He had found his handkerchief and was wiping his fingers. Webb’s eyes fell on the handkerchief and he felt suddenly sick. He turned away so as not to see it, fixing his gaze resolutely on the front door. As he did so a woman appeared in the opening, having, apparently, come from the staircase leading to the floor above. She paused irresolutely in the doorway, and Webb stared at her, dimly aware that Johnson was speaking.
“We ought to search the flat,” he was saying. “Some one may have got in—”
“There’s a lady there,” broke in Webb. “She mustn’t come in here.”
He heard an exclamation from Johnson, who brushed past him and hurried towards the waiting figure in the doorway.
The name, “Miss Braid,” reached Webb’s ears, and he stood, hesitating, his eyes steadily averted from the bedroom, while Johnson engaged in a low conversation with the lady. Then, followed by her, he approached Webb.
“This is Sir Adam’s granddaughter, Miss Braid,” he explained. “If you’ll stay with her, I’ll just run through the flat. Perhaps you’ll keep guard in the passage, sir, in case any one tries to get out.”
Webb would have infinitely preferred to get out himself; but he was a chivalrous little man, and it was plainly his duty to stand by the lady.
He tried to interpose his body between her and the sight that awaited her inside the bedroom, but he was too late. She was already in the doorway, her hand on the jamb, staring at the dead man. Then, as the full force of Johnson’s last words came home to him, he swung round to meet the possible onslaught of a desperate man intent on escape, and as he did so he realized with a tremor that he was not cast in a heroic mould.
But there was to be no further call upon his courage, and his tightened muscles relaxed as he saw Johnson emerge from the kitchen. The man’s face was livid, and he did not look as if he had relished his job.
“If there was any one here, he’s gone, sir,” he said “I’ve been through every room in the flat.”
“He must have slipped out while I was downstairs,” suggested Webb. “There was certainly some one here when I rang the bell.”
He paused, puzzled.
“But it was a woman’s voice that I heard,” he cried. “A woman couldn’t have—”
His voice died away.
“It may have been a fit,” said Johnson shakily. “The blood’s coming from his mouth.”
“It’s on the carpet too, under his head.”
The two men turned sharply at the sound of Miss Braid’s voice, and Webb found himself observing her intelligently for the first time.
She was kneeling by her grandfather’s side, her right hand on his forehead, and he could see that the cuff of her sleeve was soaked with blood. He realized, for the first time, that she was quite young and very good to look at, in spite of the lack of colour in her cheeks and the distress in her eyes. But, shocked though she was, she had her nerves well in hand, and her voice, when she spoke ag
ain, was even, though, so low that she had to repeat the sentence before the two men realized that she was calling them.
“Can you help me?” she said. “I want to lift his head.”
Johnson hurried to her side and bent over the body. Webb noticed that, of the two, Miss Braid’s hands were the steadier as, together, they lifted the dead man’s head gently, and tried to ascertain if it had been injured in the fall.
Webb cleared his throat.
“As a matter of fact,” he volunteered, rather pompously, “I fancy we ought not to touch anything until the police have been. Perhaps it would be wiser—”
He realized that he was speaking to deaf ears. Sir Adam Braid was once more lying as he had first seen him, and his granddaughter was staring across his body at Johnson with horror in her eyes.
“The blood’s coming from a cut at the back of his neck,” she said slowly. “He couldn’t have done that in falling. Some one must have—”
Then, as she realized the full force of her own argument, her eyes became fixed, and for a moment her body swayed ominously.
Johnson, who seemed incapable of speech, sprang to his feet and went to her side. He slipped his arm under hers and helped her to rise.
Supported by Johnson she stood looking down at her grandfather. The dead man’s features had relaxed into a serenity that gave a value to the intellectual forehead and sensitive, well-cut mouth, which even the bloodstain that ran from the lips and over the chin could not mar. Adam Braid was nobler in death than he had ever been in life, and for the moment all that she and hers had suffered at the dead man’s hands was wiped out, and she remembered only her kinship to the man lying murdered at her feet.
“That he should have died like that!” she cried passionately. “An old man who couldn’t even defend himself!”
Johnson drew her gently towards the door.
“Come away, miss,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do here.”
Webb made another effort to assert himself.
“We really ought to send for the police, you know,” he insisted nervously, “and a doctor. I can telephone—”