THEFORBIDDENGARDEN

by The Forbidden Garden(Lit)

  "Do you two know what you are trying to do?" he asked with deadly calm when Vartan finished. Before either could reply, he whipped an ancient wooden pillbox from his breech cloth, removed the cover with a flourish, and presented the box for their inspection. "Have a pinch of snuff?"

  "Delighted," Vartan replied instantly, acting on his theory that all friendly advances, from savages or maniacs, should be accepted in the spirit in which they are offered. Before he could help himself to a pinch of the shiny black dust, Marjorie had dashed the box from James Brassey's hand.

  "Don't!" she cried.

  James picked up the empty box, put on the lid, and restored it to its hiding place. His face was white with repressed anger.

  "I beg your pardon," Vartan apologized for both of them.

  Ignoring the apology, James faced Marjorie with a dangerous glitter in his eyes.

  "So you know what you are trying to do," he said.

  Marjorie paled, but kept her wits. Now or never she must justify her employer's faith in her ability.

  "I don't know what you mean," she said quietly. "Mr. Vartan is very easily upset by tobacco. Snuff, I believe, is worse than smoking. I didn't want to see him made ill just before dinner for the sake of mere politeness, and I beg your pardon for not having reminded him more tactfully."

  If James swallowed this glib explanation, Vartan did not. Marjorie knew a great deal more than she would admit. His first estimate of her was confirmed. She was acting a part. For whose good or evil she was acting remained to be seen. Whatever James may have thought, he kept to himself. Remembering that he was an English gentleman who changed his breech clout for dinner he accepted Marjorie's apology with a bow that would have been ludicrous if it had not been pathetic.

  "Shall we go to dinner?" he asked. "Your things, I presume, have not come. Will you excuse me while I change?"

  "Certainly," they said, and James stalked off toward a dark bole in the rock wall behind them. They waited till he had disappeared.

  "Are we prisoners?" Marjorie asked.

  "It seems that way," Vartan admitted. "James looks dangerous. Evidently he has made himself master of whatever society there is here. The Englishman's genius for bossing primitive peoples, again, and making them do things their native common sense tells them are absurd. Let's try to make him talk after dinner."

  "I'm willing. Eat very little, and sample nothing that he doesn't touch first."

  "What was that black powder?" Vartan demanded accusingly.

  "I don't know, but I believe it was spores."

  "Then why did you knock it out of his hand?"

  "Have you ever heard of cocaine? Is that a good thing to snuff? Well, these black spores may be worse. Take a chance, if you like. I shan't. Good Heavens!" she broke off. "Keep a straight face. Here he comes."

  The admonition was unnecessary so far as it concerned Vartan. If he had given any vent to his emotions, it would have been through tears, not laughter. Stalking pompously toward them with outstretched hand, James Brassey, the unconscious caricature of all that is stately and dignified in formal English Society, was offering his guests the honor of his hospitality. He was in evening dress. The swallow tail coat was a generation behind the times; only a fragment of one trouser leg clung to the thigh which had thickened considerably since James was measured for the suit, while the rags of the other flapped about the knee like a signal of distress; yet, true to his dearest tradition, he had dressed for dinner. His feet, as when they had first seen him, were bare. The white shirt, which should have set off the green-black remnants of the swallow tail, was missing. It had rotted years ago. In its place, James' hairy, muscular chest burst through the ineffectual screen of the coat which he had long since outgrown.

  "This way, Miss Driscott," he said offering her his arm. "I am sorry, Mr. Vartan, that I have no lady for you to take in this evening. If I had anticipated your delightful visit, I should have had a houseful of beautiful creatures to meet you."

  "Things are fine as they are," Vartan assured him cordially.

  "Your pleasure is mine," James replied courteously. "It's only a step or two. When I first began living here, I arranged the dining room at a convenient distance from my dressing chamber. One gets so warm in here in one's evening clothes. Too stuffy, don't you think? Good; so do I. Tried to find some way of ventilating the place, but never succeeded." Then, with a truly Kensington touch, he turned to Vartan and confided a domestic secret of the highest importance, in exactly the same words that his father had used hundreds of times. "The drains," he boasted, are excellent. No thorn without its rose, eh?"

  He led them into a snug, highly luminous pocket in the wall about five hundred feet from what he called his dressing room.

  "Another reason," he continued, "why I put the dining room here is that I don't like passing the marsh just before dinner. I've worked in the stuff for years now, but I simply can't get used to one of those piles of black jelly just before dining. Interesting enough, too, in its own way, as I told you. Full of seeds, I think I remarked."

  "You did," Marjorie confirmed. "What kind of seeds?"

  "Ordinary seeds," he replied offhandedly. "Seeds of madness, I call them. Very rare. The pollen is what counts – not from those seeds of course, but from the flowers. By the way, what happened to my snuff box? Dash it!" he exclaimed irritably. "I've left it in my other clothes. Never mind. Miss Driscott, will you sit here? Mr. Vartan, on my left, please."

  The incident of the pill box was already fading into the murky half lights of the shattered mind. As they took their seats they devoutly hoped it would not emerge again to embarrass them. They had expected to dine as they had breakfasted, like ancient Romans, reclining on beds of dried flowers. James however had never fancied the native customs of eating. Somehow or another he had put together a very fair table and half a dozen three-legged stools. There was even a tablecloth, not of white linen, it is true, but of a coarsely woven fibre that looked like hemp. In the centre of the table a huge half-gourd, brimmed with impossible flowers that would have made an orthodox botanist gasp, glared at them with its crude scarlets and shrieking blues.

  "From my own garden," James explained, seeing their amazement. "You don't get flowers like that in England, do you?"

  Marjorie admitted their strange rarity.

  "Smell one of the scarlet ones," James continued, eyeing her with ill-disguised hostility. The snuff box had flashed out of the black clouds of his memory for a moment, and almost before she replied, he had forgotten his purpose.

  "Thank you," she said, with a warning glance at Vartan, "but the full fragrance of most flowers makes my head ache. They are beautiful," she exclaimed, noting the puzzled frown on his face. "If you don't mind, I'll just sit and admire them."

  "They will be flattered, I'm sure," he returned with a pitiable attempt at the gallantry which he had once practised as a young man, years ago, before the hand seized him. "Where's that man?" he continued fussily. "He said dinner was served."

  Hearing his new master's voice, the impeccable servitor entered from the hole in the wall which evidently was the kitchen. His clothes were Ali Baba's, but his shaved face was another's. Vartan rose slowly to his feet.

  "Well, I'm damned," he said. "Shane's Old White Horse."

  With an inimitable resumption of his English man servant's fawning insolence, William Arbold, late caravan leader Ali Baba, late factotum of Brassey House, obsequiously stole behind Vartan's stool.

  "Will you sit down, sir? Mr. James Brassey made this stool himself. I am sure you will find it most comfortable."

  "I'll see you in hell first," Vartan retorted. "Miss Driscott, do you recognize this man, or am I dreaming?"

  Marjorie also had risen, and was staring in round – eyed astonishment at the former Ali Baba.

  "Who are you?" she whispered in a voice not wholly free from fear.

  "My name is Arbold, Miss Driscott. William Arbold. If I remember correctly, I frequently had the pleasure of seeing
you during the past six years at Brassey House. You are Mr. Charles Brassey's confidential agent, are you not? May I ask you to be seated?"

  "I'll not sit down till I know the truth of this. Who are you?"

  James, following the strange dialogue confusedly, also had risen.

  "May I ask what this means?" he demanded. "Dinner is getting cold. Is this man your interpreter, your servant, or is he not?"

  "He is not," Vartan snapped. "Do you remember Scotland Yard, Mr. Brassey?'

  "A sort of police station, wasn't it, with a man called Sherlock Holmes at its head? Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort when I dropped out of things."

  "You are right, essentially," Vartan replied. "The main point is that this man, who was our alleged interpreter, is badly wanted by the police of Scotland Yard right now."

  "How interesting," James remarked. "You don't say? But why don't you all sit down and have some dinner? Oh, pardon me. This man is now my butler. Will you serve us, and take your own meal in the pantry?"

  "Yes sir, thank you sir," the former Ali murmured in perfect imitation of a faultlessly trained servant. "I can find nothing but fruit and vegetables in the larder, sir. Shall I bring them on?"

  "Of course," James replied, a trifle tartly. "What do you think you're here for?"

  "Mr. Brassey," Vartan began when Ali, or Arbold as he now seemed to consider himself, had withdrawn, I don't believe you realize how serious the situation is. This man, I tell you, is being sought by the ablest police agency in the world, and he has been posing as a native Hindoo and our interpreter."

  James Brassey for a moment struggled hard to concentrate on what his guest with the sober face was trying to tell him.

  "Indeed?" he said. "How extraordinary. But you are tired and hungry after your long journey, I know. We can talk after dinner. Ah, here it comes."

  Vartan exchanged a despairing glance with Marjorie, while Arbold obsequiously served them with piles of unwholesome looking fruits or vegetables in gourd bowls.

  "Can't you think of something to bring his mind back for half an hour?" he asked in a low tone.

  "Not now," she answered, glancing at their host whose whole attention seemed focused on the fruit before him, which he ate noisily and with a lack of manners that would have shocked himself in one of his saner moments. "Wait until after he has had his dinner." She turned to Ali, who was meekly standing at attention against the wall. For the moment James was oblivious of their presence. "William Arbold," she demanded sternly, "what are you doing here?"

  Arbold glanced at James. The forlorn creature was wholly absorbed in the joy of eating a meal served by undeformed hands other than his own.

  "I will tell you," Arbold replied with cold civility. "I am here, Miss Driscott, to see that you do not betray your employer, Charles Brassey. Like Mr. Vartan, I distrust you. And so does my chief, if you wish to know."

  Marjorie did not flinch.

  "Who is your chief?"

  "Inspector Ransome, of Scotland Yard."

  "You are an agent of Scotland Yard?"

  "Temporarily. Loaned to London, you might say, by the India Secret Police, to work on the Brassey case."

  "Does Charles Brassey know this?"

  "He does not, and he wouldn't believe it if he were told. His friend Ransome put me on the case to protect Charles against himself, and to prevent him from being fleeced by every spy who worms his or her way into his confidence."

  "You think I am one of those spies?" she continued quietly. "Please give our host some more fruit before you answer. Take your time."

  Arbold served James a second enormous bowl, and turned to face Marjorie.

  "I think," he replied slowly, "as Mr. Vartan does, that you are not what you represent yourself to be."

  "Two against one," she commented. "For Mr. Vartan s good, I must warn him–"

  "Never mind me," Vartan cut in curtly. "I can take care of myself. Go on, you two. You were together for six years at Brassey House. If you don't know one another by this time, even with Arbold as Ali, and with you as whatever you may be without any makeup, it's your own fault, and I can't help either of you."

  Marjorie glanced at Vartan with something perilously near contempt before putting her next question to Arbold.

  "Annetta West," she continued, "was also an agent of Scotland Yard, I presume? She disappeared from Brassey House the same afternoon that you did."

  She had kept her eyes studiously on the scarlet and blue flowers while speaking, in an obvious effort to avoid Arbold's face. Vartan, watching both like an expert poker player, detected the slight, barely perceptible evidence of Arbold's struggle to read his inquisitor's purpose. For perhaps two seconds he hesitated before answering her question.

  "Miss West," he said, "was also a trusted agent of Scotland Yard."

  "I thought so," Marjorie murmured enigmatically. "Why did she send that fake cablegram to me in Bombay?"

  "That Mr. Shane's slides had been found?"

  "Yes. That one. Shall I recall it to you? I memorized it, for possible emergencies. The first part was uninteresting. It merely said that Mr. Shane's slides had been returned. The rest gave the message enclosed with them: 'Mr. Vartan's seated orders are, in our opinion, of greater moment to Brassey House than are Mr. Shane's slides, important though the latter undoubtedly are. It would be to the advantage of Brassey House to learn the nature of Mr. Vartan's sealed orders before entrusting him with the proposed expedition.' Did Miss West send that message?"

  "Undoubtedly, Miss Driscott," Arbold answered immediately.

  "Because you told her to send it?"

  "I instructed Miss West by cable to send such a message in behalf of Scotland Yard."

  "You suspected me?" Vartan suggested.

  "After what I gathered during your lunch at Brassey House, how could I help it, Mr. Vartan?"

  "So you and Miss West have worked together," Marjorie added, "from the beginning. I see. How simple it all is when one knows. Did you at any time include me in your suspicions?"

  To cover his confusion, real or assumed, Arbold offered James some dessert in the shape of smaller fruits.

  "Your integrity is not questioned at Scotland Yard," Arbold explained as delicately as he could. "But we have questioned Mr. Brassey's wisdom in entrusting you with important missions."

  "Such as observer on this expedition?" she suggested.

  "That, specifically. Yes. Mr. Ransome thought it would be wiser to have an experienced man on the case."

  "And that, I presume, is why you took charge of Mr. Shane's black ice – or rather the sediment you carefully collected from it. You thought, perhaps, that Mr. Shane might be robbed by spies on the way back to Srinagar?"

  "If you were an experienced operative," Arbold retorted with a trace of asperity, "you would see that it was the only thing to be done."

  "Thanks," said Vartan ironically. "You two either leave me out of your theories entirely, or seem to take it for granted that I'm a crook."

  "Tit for tat," Marjorie countered with a charming smile. "Now, Mr. Arbold, you have just told me I'm stupid, so please don't object if I ask you a perfectly silly question. Are you English? '

  "I am."

  "Sure of that?"

  "Why shouldn't I be? I knew my own father pretty well, I should think."

  "How about your mother?" Marjorie persisted. "Didn't you know her even better than you knew your father?"

  "Really, Miss Driscott, I don't see the drift of your questions."

  "You will in a moment. Were you born in England?"

  "Of course I was. What–"

  "Never mind. I can't prove that you were not. Was your nurse English, Scotch, Irish, or American?"

  "I had no nurse," he snapped.

  "Then your mother was not English."

  "I–"

  "Never mind. I'll leave it to Mr. Vartan. He's impartial enough, as he doesn't seem to like me any better than he does you. Even the most skilful and highly trained man
in the India Secret Service cannot deceive forty natives into believing he is one of them, for weeks on end as you did, unless he has native blood in his veins. His little tricks of eating, of walking, of speech, would give him away in less than a week to even stupid men. Our porters were not all dense. Some of them were highly intelligent.

  You are so much a native in some things that you don't know it yourself.

  "I conclude that your father was an English officer – perhaps a gentleman; that your mother was at least part native; that she was your nurse and constant companion for the first seven or eight years of your life; that you were 'sent home' to an English school, and did well in your studies; that you went to Cambridge or a private tutor to prepare for the examinations into the India Civil Service; that you passed high, and entered the secret service. Am I right, except perhaps for details?"

  Vartan had been sitting open mouthed while Marjorie analysed the man standing stock still with expressionless face before them. He now took his part.

  "Answer her yes or no. Don't hesitate! You did hesitate. You needn't bother to tell us. The answer is yes. Now, to come back to the original question, who the devil are you?"

  William Arbold permitted a broad smile, almost a grin to expand over his equine features.

  "It can do no harm to tell you now," he confessed. "Before I do, I must apologise to our charming observer, and admit that she has far more ability than I've thought she had all these six years. Perhaps I had better say also that from my observation of you, Mr. Vartan, I find you to be as trustworthy as Mr. Brassey could wish. The time for all my harmless little disguises is past. From now on we must all pull together. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alfred Jamieson, Chief of the India Secret Police, loaned by the Government of India to Scotland Yard to clear up this very perplexing Brassey case."

  CHAPTER 19

  GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

  What Vartan thought of Jamieson's revelations he kept to himself.

  Marjorie also remained thoughtful, as if resenting the slur cast on her perspicacity by Inspector Ransome of Scotland Yard. Could she have known the very practical estimate which Miss Annetta Tappan-West had given of Inspector Ransome, she might have felt more cheerful. For the moment she was absorbed in watching James Brassey. Being at last satisfied, James was contemplating the centrepiece of scarlet and blue flowers. His eyes were dull, as if he had overeaten, which indeed he had. Presently one black hand was thrust out over the table to reach for the flowers. Marjorie quickly intercepted his hand.