Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Let me see them,” answered Ingoldmells politely. Having made an estimate of the young man’s character, he now wanted to see what his artistic talents were like. With this object in view he examined all the sketches in the portfolio minutely and then turned to those on the walls. Robert said nothing, but he somehow felt that this man’s visit would prove the turning-point of his misfortune. But even then the young man’s heart was very sad, because it was two days since Felicia had left him, promising to write to him the next morning. As yet he had received no communication and he was on the tenterhooks of expectation, not because he had any doubt of Felicia, but for the reason that he had no means of obtaining any information of what went on in the Burgh le Marsh mansion. Mr. Ingoldmells had finished his examination and had come to the conclusion that though many of Robert’s works were crude and lacking in finish, he had the true artistic spirit in him. He extended his hand to the young man and said forcibly, “I’m no longer influenced by the opinion of a friend. I have seen and judged for myself. More than ever I want to be in the possession of one of your paintings. I have made my choice of a subject and now let us discuss the details.”

  As he spoke he gave a little sketch to Robert. It was a view of everyday life, which the painter had entitled, “Outside the Mansion-wall.” Two men with torn garments were struggling in combat, while on the right hand side of the painting was a woman. In the background were some running figures, who were hastening up to separate the combatants. The sketch was one of real life, denuded of any sham element of romance and this was the one that Mr. Ingoldmells had chosen. The two men discussed the size of the painting and not a single detail was omitted.

  “I’m sure that you will do all that is right,” said Ingoldmells. “Let your own inspiration guide you and all will be well.”

  “Sir,” said Robert, taking the hint, “it is impossible to fix a price now. When it is completed the painting may only be worth the canvas that it is painted on or may be priceless. Let us wait.”

  “What do you say to ten thousand shilling?” interjected Mr. Ingoldmells.

  “Too much,” answered Robert. “If I succeed, I will ask three thousand shilling for it.”

  “Agreed!” answered Ingoldmells, taking from his pocket an elegant wallet with his crest and monogram on it. He took a thousand shilling from it. “I will deposit a third of the price in advance.”

  Robert blushed scarlet. “That’s too much,” he said.

  “I have my own way of doing business, from which I never deviate,” answered Ingoldmells quietly.

  In spite of this answer Robert said, “This portrait will not be ready for perhaps six or seven months. I have entered into a contract with a wealthy speculator to create the outside decorations of his house.”

  “Never mind that,” answered Mr. Ingoldmells. “Take as long as you like.”

  After this Robert could offer no further opposition. He therefore took the money without another word.

  “All that done,” said Ingoldmells, as he paused for a moment at the open doorway, “come and breakfast with me one day. I think I can show you some paintings, which you will really appreciate.” He handed his card to the artist and went downstairs.

  At first Robert didn’t look at the card, but when he did, the letters seemed to burn his eyeballs like a red-hot iron. For a moment he could hardly breathe and then a feeling of intense anger took possession of him, because he felt that he had been deceived.

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed out on the landing and leaning over the banister, he screamed, “Sir, stop for a moment!”

  Ingoldmells, who had by this time reached the bottom of the staircase, turned around.

  “Come back, if you please,” said Robert.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Ingoldmells obeyed and when he was again in the studio Robert addressed him in a voice, which quivered with indignation.

  “Take back these banknotes, sir. I will not accept them.”

  “Why this sudden change of heart?”

  “You know perfectly well, Mr. Ingoldmells.”

  The gentleman at once knew that Felicia had mentioned his name to the young artist and said, “Let me hear your reasons, sir.”

  “Because, because…” stammered the young man.

  Robert’s confusion became greater. He could not tell the whole truth, because he would have died sooner than bring Felicia’s name into the discussion and he could only see one way out of his difficulty.

  “Suppose I say that I don’t like you,” he answered slowly.

  “Are you trying to insult me, Mr. Crawley?”

  Mr. Ingoldmells turned livid and made a step forward, but his generous impulses restrained him and it was in a voice broken by agitation that he said, “Accept my apologies, Mr. Crawley. I fear that I have played a part unworthy of you and of myself. I know everything.”

  This statement took Robert’s breath away.

  Ingoldmells continued gravely, “Yesterday, at Miss Burgh le Marsh’s request, I withdrew from my position as a suitor for her hand.”

  Robert had already been touched by Ingoldmells’s frank and open manner and these last words entirely conquered him.

  “I can never thank you enough,” he began.

  But Ingoldmells interrupted him.

  “A man should not be thanked for performing his duty. I would lie to you if I said that I’m not painfully surprised at her decision. But tell me, had you been in my place, would you not have acted in the same manner?”

  “I think that I would.”

  “And now we are friends, are we not?” and again Ingoldmells held out his hand, which Robert clasped with enthusiasm.

  “Yes, yes,” he said.

  “And now,” continued Ingoldmells, with a forced smile, “let us say no more about the painting, which was merely a pretext. I came here to see what you were like and now I say to you, do me a great honor and allow me to place myself at your disposal.”

  The offer was made in perfect good faith, but Robert shook his head.

  “I will never forget your kindness in making this offer, but…” He paused for a moment and then went on, “I will be as open as you’ve been and will tell you the whole truth. I love Felicia and would give my life for her. Don’t be offended at what I’m about to say. I would, however, sooner give up her hand than be indebted for it to you.”

  “Don’t take it that way!”

  “No, sir. I would feel deeply humiliated by the thought of your self-denial and selflessness.”

  “But I have been poor myself,” interjected Ingoldmells. “Do you know what I was doing for fifteen years? I worked on a cattle ranch in South America. Do you think that those days taught me nothing?”

  “You will be able to judge me all the more clearly then,” answered Robert. “If I raise myself up to Felicia’s level, then I will feel that I’m your equal, but if I accept your aid, I’m your inferior. I will be in her class or perish in the effort.”

  The passion which stirred Robert’s inmost soul had breathed out with every word he said.

  He said at last, “Please allow me to call myself your friend.”

  Mr. Ingoldmells’s noble nature enabled him to understand Robert’s feelings. He slowly put the banknotes back in his wallet and then said in a low voice, “Your conduct is that of an honorable man. You may rely on me, always. Farewell!”

  As soon as he was alone Robert threw himself into an armchair and mused over the unexpected conversation. All that he now longed for was a word from Felicia. The landlady entered with a letter.

  “A letter!” he screamed and tearing it open, he glanced at the signature. But Felicia’s name was not there. It was signed by Georgette. He felt that some great misfortune was impending and trembling with fear, he read the letter.

  “Sir, I write to tell you that my mistress has succeeded in the matter she spoke of to you, but I’m sorry to say that I have bad news to give you, because she is seriously ill.”

  “Ill!�
� screamed Robert, crushing up the letter in his hands and throwing it on the floor. He snatched up his hat and rushed downstairs and into the street.

  As soon as the landlady was left alone, she picked up the letter, smoothed it out and read it.

  “So,” she murmured, “the little lady’s name is Felicia and she’s ill, is she? I expect that the old man, who called this morning and asked so many questions about Mr. Crawley, would give a good deal for this note. But that would not be fair.” She smiled.

  Mad with anguish Robert hurried through the streets in the direction of the Burgh le Marsh mansion. He cared little for the attention that his agitated looks and gestures caused. He had no clear plan as to what to do when he arrived at his destination. How would he obtain the information that he required? The evening was a dark one and the street lights showed a feeble light through the thick fog. There were no signs of life in the street. This gloom only added to the young painter’s depression. He walked to the gate of the house, hoping to pick up some information even from the exterior aspect of the house, because it seemed to him that if Felicia was dying, the very stones in the street would lament, but the fog had closely enwrapped the house and he could hardly see which of the windows were lit. He knew that he could not move a step further without compromising the woman he so madly adored. His mind told him that there was no use in waiting, but an inner voice warned him to stay. Would Georgette know that he was there and come out to give him more information? Suddenly a thought shot across his mind, vivid as a flash of lightning.

  “Mr. Ingoldmells will help me,” he cried.

  He had Mr. Ingoldmells’s card in his pocket and hurried off to his address. Mr. Ingoldmells had a fine house not far away.

  “I want to see Mr. Ingoldmells,” said Robert, as he stopped breathless at the door, where a couple of footmen were chatting.

  The men looked at him with supreme contempt. “He is out,” one of them at last condescended to reply.

  Robert had by this time recovered his calm. He took Ingoldmells’s card and wrote on it in pencil, “I need your help. Robert Crawley.”

  “Give this to your master as soon as he comes in,” he said.

  He then descended the steps and slowly walked away. He was certain that Mr. Ingoldmells was in the house. His conclusion proved right. He was overtaken by one of the footmen, before he reached the end of the street. He was conducted back to the house and shown into a magnificently furnished library.

  Ingoldmells feared that some terrible event had taken place.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Felicia is ill.” Robert at once proceeded to inform Ingoldmells of what had happened, since his departure.

  “But what can I do?”

  “You can go and make inquiries at the house.”

  “Yesterday I wrote to the count and broke off my engagement to his daughter and twenty-four hours later I inquire after his daughter’s health? That’s not done!”

  “You’re right,” murmured Robert dejectedly.

  “But,” continued Ingoldmells after a moment’s reflection, “I know a detective, Mr. Poiret, who knows the Count of Burgh le Marsh. He is French, but as true as steel. Come with me!”

  The footmen were surprised at seeing their master on such terms of intimacy with the shabbily dressed young man, but said nothing of course.

  Not a word was exchanged during the short drive to Mr. Poiret’s apartment.

  “Wait for me,” said Ingoldmells, springing from the vehicle as soon as it stopped. “I will be back immediately.”

  Mr. Poiret was justly called one of the vainest men in London. His black hair contrasted with his age. His huge mustache contrasted with his height. His spending contrasted with his occupation, retired policeman. Mr. Poiret was admiring himself wearing a new dinner jacket in a huge mirror, when Mr. Ingoldmells was announced. Mr. Poiret greeted his visitor warmly, because they had been formally introduced at one of Count Burgh le Marsh’s parties.

  “You here at this hour, Monsieur Ingoldmells!” said the portly man. “Is it the vision or merely the miracle?” But the smile died away on his lips as he caught a glimpse of his visitor’s pale and harassed face. “Is there anything the matter?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Ingoldmells answered, “but there may be, because I hear that Miss Burgh le Marsh is dangerously ill.”

  “Poor Mademoiselle Felicia! What is it that ails her?”

  “I don’t know and I want you, Mr. Poiret, to inquire into the truth of what we’ve heard.”

  Mr. Poiret opened his eyes very wide.

  “But Poiret, he is not the doctor,” he said. “But to tell to Poiret, are you not her fiancé?”

  “That was once the case, but it is now impossible for me to go to her father’s house myself. If you have any kindness of heart, Mr. Poiret, you do as I ask you and I want you also to promise me not to say a word of this to anyone.”

  Curious as he was about this mystery, Mr. Poiret didn’t ask another question.

  “Poiret, he will do exactly what you want,” he replied, “and respect your secret.”

  “Thanks, a thousand times. I will go home and wait for news from you.”

  “Not at all, Monsieur Ingoldmells. You must stay here for the dinner.”

  “I have a friend waiting for me.”

  “To please yourself,” Poiret answered, smiling. “Poiret, he will send a note this evening.”

  Ingoldmells pressed his hand and hurried down. He was met by Robert at the door, because he had been unable to sit still in the car.

  “Keep up your courage. We will have the facts soon.”

  “Soon?” groaned Robert. “What a lapse of time!”

  “We will talk of her while we wait, because you must stay and dine with me.”

  Robert Crawley yielded, because he had no longer the energy to contest anything.

  The dinner was exquisite, but the two men were not in a condition of mind to enjoy it and scarcely consumed anything. They tried to speak about other subjects, but when the coffee was served in the library, they were silent. As the clock struck ten, however, a knock was heard at the door, then whisperings and lastly Mr. Poiret burst in like a tornado.

  “Poiret, he is here,” he cried with extreme agitation. “Poiret, he has come here, Monsieur Ingoldmells to tell to you that your conduct, it is abominable and ungentlemanly.”

  “Mr. Poiret!”

  “Please to hold your tongue! Now Poiret, he understands why you did not want to write yourself. You knew the effect that your message, it would have on her.”

  Mr. Ingoldmells turned to Robert and said, “You see that I was right in what I told you.”

  This remark for the first time attracted Mr. Poiret’s attention to the fact that a stranger was present.

  “Mon Dieu!” he screamed, with a start. “Poiret, he thought that we were alone.”

  “This gentleman has all my confidence,” replied Mr. Ingoldmells seriously and as he spoke he laid his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Robert Crawley to you, Mr. Poiret. He may not be known today, but in a short time his reputation as a painter will be known to all.”

  Robert bowed. Poiret returned the favor. He was surprised at the extremely shabby clothes of this confidential friend.

  Ingoldmells continued, “So Miss Burgh le Marsh is really ill and our information is correct.”

  “Bien sur, that she is.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “Poiret, he has seen her, Monsieur Ingoldmells and had you seen her, your heart, it would have been filled with the pity and you would have repented for your conduct toward her.”

  “That was not the reason, Mr. Poiret, but you’ve told us nothing, pray, go on,” interjected Ingoldmells.

  The extreme calmness of his client and a glance which he observed passing between him and Robert Crawley, enlightened the detective somewhat.

  “Poiret, he asked as much as he could,” he replied, “but he only received
the vaguest of answers. Felicia, she looked as if she was dead and her father and mother, they hovered over her bed as if they were the ghosts. Had they slain her with their own hands, they could not have looked more guilty.”

  “Tell me precisely what answers were given to your questions,” Mr. Ingoldmells interjected impatiently.

  “It seems, Monsieur, that you saw Felicia that afternoon, but what became of her afterward not one knows. There is the proof that she did not leave the house and that she did not receive the letters. Felicia, she says a few unintelligible words to her maid and falls to the floor. She is carried to her bed, but since then she has neither moved nor spoken.”

  “That is not all,” said Ingoldmells, who had watched the detective keenly.

  Poiret started and avoided meeting his client’s eyes.

  “Poiret, he does not understand,” he said softly, “why you look at him like that?”

  “My dear Mr. Poiret,” Mr. Ingoldmells said, “your presence here tonight shows that you’re brave and trustworthy.”

  “What is it you mean by this prologue, Monsieur Ingoldmells?”

  “Mr. Poiret, may I entrust you with a secret, which involves the honor of two persons and the lives of many more?”

  “You may, Monsieur Ingoldmells,” he answered calmly.

  “Tell us all you heard.”

  “It is only something Poiret has heard from Mademoiselle Georgette, the maid. You, Monsieur had just left the house, when the Earl of Reigate, he makes his appearance.”

  “An eccentric old gentleman. I know him.”

  “Oui, c’est ca! He and the count, they have the stormy conversation and at the end, the earl he is taken ill.”

  “That seems curious.”

  “But to wait! There is more. After all this Monsieur le Comte and his wife, they have the terrible scene together. Mademoiselle Georgette, she thinks that her mistress, she has heard something said.”

  Every word that he said strengthened Ingoldmells’s suspicions. Without omitting a single detail, he told Poiret his and Robert Crawley’s story.

  “There is something mysterious in all this, Mr. Poiret,” he ended the story.