by Vernon Loder
‘I understand that,’ said Fisher gravely.
Tollard nodded. ‘They were antipathetic from the first. My wife disliked, and finally hated her. She never made a scene with me. She was not a woman to reproach one in words. But, strange as it may seem, I can assure you that after I had arranged to finance this expedition, and she had declared that she would not allow Miss Gurdon to come to the house, she hardly said a word to me when we were alone. She took refuge in a silence that I felt more deeply than any reproaches. For months, except in public, she rarely spoke. I was cut to the heart, but I did not know what to do.’
He drummed with his fingers on the table as he continued: ‘I decided at last to ask Miss Gurdon to let me withdraw my promise. She agreed readily. Then it occurred to me that I might consult Margery’s doctor. She had suffered once from neurasthenia, and I knew that he was an expert in that kind of case. I went to him, put the case before him, and asked his advice. He told me categorically that I would make a great mistake if I took the line I proposed taking. He assured me that people of Margery’s temperament would not be convinced by my action. It would seem to them a confession of guilt. “Be firm, but very kind,” he told me. “Let her see that you are unconscious of any wrongdoing. This Miss Gurdon will set off on her expedition. It will take a year or two, and your wife will come round. She takes after her father. He is a curious man, and has been spoiled by people giving way to him. Neurasthenics are like hysterical people. Too much coddling and sympathy does harm, not good.” I believe he gave me the best advice he could. At least, he convinced me. I determined to go on as I had been doing.’
‘I don’t see that you could have acted otherwise, after what the doctor told you,’ said Fisher.
‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not.’ Tollard wiped his brow again, and bowed his head. ‘I told Miss Gurdon, and she reluctantly agreed. We discussed the matter for some time, until she bowed to the specialist’s superior knowledge. I blame myself very deeply for overruling her. It has subjected her to a great deal of gossip and pain. But I can’t go back on that now.
‘We came here on Mr Barley’s invitation. I knew Miss Gurdon was to be here, and I welcomed the opportunity of demonstrating to my wife that my relations with that lady were only those of friendship, and common interests in exploration, I discovered, in a day or two, how mistaken I was. I could see that Margery was in a silent fury all day. When I took her to Elterham, on the morning of the day before her death, I knew that it was a mistake. I could read her face by then, and I determined at all costs to leave the house; where, if I had remained, I would have had to meet Miss Gurdon daily, under my wife’s eye. So I made the excuse of urgent business, and left that same afternoon for London, going on from there to Lymington, where I joined my friend on his yacht. The next thing I knew was the telegram which told me that she was dead.’
He bit his lip, and stopped. Silence fell again. When he had recovered himself a little, Fisher put a question.
‘You see, sir, what the circumstances surrounding this tragedy imply? You could not be aware before, but you are aware now that this was not planned only as a suicide, but as a suicide that would have the appearance of murder; the guilt of which would most probably seem to attach to Miss Gurdon?’
Tollard suppressed a groan. ‘I can only think she was not responsible for her actions.’
Fisher nodded. ‘Nothing seems more certain. Come, sir! We won’t harass you any more. If I can arrange it so, there will be no mention of this extraneous matter at the inquest. We had better subpoena this London specialist, to give evidence to the effect that your wife was neurasthenic. On the strength of that, the jury will bring it in as “suicide while of unsound mind”—Do you agree to that finally?’
‘I do,’ said Tollard. ‘Thank you, superintendent. And you, Carton, and Mr Barley. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you. This has shaken me badly.’
The superintendent stood aside, and Tollard rose and went out. No one followed him. The three men stood silent and grave. From the hall they could hear Tollard’s heavy footfalls going slowly away.
CHAPTER XXIX
A JOINT EXPEDITION
AUGUST had come when Jim Carton and Elaine again went down to Stowe House to stay with Mr Barley. Elaine was going out to South America on the expedition she had formerly planned, so was glad to snatch a respite from her preparations, and the thousand and one things that needed to be seen to before she could set out.
Tollard had gone abroad for a long trip, after the adjourned inquest had resulted in a verdict of the kind Superintendent Fisher had foreshadowed, and his guarantee to Elaine had been withdrawn at her request.
Mr Barley stood in now. He had his wish, and it had been agreed that he was to finance the Matta Grosso expedition. The Gurdon-Barley expedition, the newspapers called it, and the old man was already anticipating, and gloating innocently over, his vicarious triumphs-to-be.
What Jim Carton thought of it, is another matter, and it was from a benevolent anxiety to get his views that Mr Barley asked him down to Stowe the week that Elaine was to be there. There were no other guests.
It seemed to Mr Barley that Elaine was very different from the composed, rather assured, young woman who had stayed with him in the early summer. She was softer, brighter. He wondered if the call of the wild had worked this metamorphosis, or the fact that her long-planned expedition had now every prospect of a successful start.
Carton, too, noticed the change, and was happier, but he did not make the mistake his host made in attributing Elaine’s new attractiveness to such a material cause. He knew now that the early summer had seen her under the cloud caused by the Tollards’ troubles, in which she had been involved against her will, and her better judgment. The shadow had lifted; that was all.
‘I wonder, Elaine, if you want a man to join your expedition?’ he asked her, twinkling, on the third day of their stay. ‘I know of one, who is out of work, and might consider it. He’s a hard worker, knows something of the wilds, and would go without pay.’
‘I might think of it,’ said Elaine smiling. ‘Who is he?’
Jim came closer. ‘Not very far away, my dear,’ he said softly. ‘Though nothing would make him happier than to be still nearer! Darling, if you go off on this jaunt. I’ll follow you! That’s as true a thing as I ever said. But I would sooner you took me? Have I a bare chance, dear?’
Elaine flushed, and was no more the composed young woman of whom the world knew most.
‘I hate the idea of going,’ she said rapidly, but softly. ‘I was so keen on it when I came here before. But I’ll love it if you come, old boy.’
‘Will you?’ he cried, and his eyes glowed now. ‘Do you mean it—really? As I mean it?’
She did not reply, and he needed none. She went into his arms, and then, suddenly, Paradise was lost for a while. Mr Barley, full of the most sudden and benevolent intentions, entered the room.
They jumped apart guiltily, and he stared at them; a smile taking the place of the startled look that had come to his face when he realised things.
‘I believe you have forestalled us again, Carton!’ he cried gaily. ‘I had a splendid idea, and was just coming in to put it to you both—’
‘It’s not too late to tell it, sir,’ said Carton, smiling.
‘It was only to suggest that it might be a good plan if you two joined forces in this expedition. But you seem to have settled that already.’
‘On mutual terms!’ said Jim.
THE END
THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB
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LIST OF TITLES
CALLED BACK • HUGH CONWAY
THE MAYFAIR MYSTERY • FRANK RICHARDSON
THE MYSTERY OF THE SKELETON KEY
BERNARD CAPES
THE GRELL MYSTERY • FRANK FROËST
DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE • R. L. STEVENSON
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THE PONSON CASE • FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
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FURTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION
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